Leon's Story

Guilt trails behind you

a lingering shadow

cast behind every step

of your every journey.

It is almost daybreak. A sweep of blue is stretched out across the canvas of the morning, and the first few golden rays of light are trickling through the cracks in the sky.           

On any other day, Leon would be completely unaware of this fact. He is sitting by the window, gazing at the sky while sipping a cup of warm coffee. He spends quite some time there, until an alarm goes off.

Leon's head jerks backwards. He stumbles across the room and smacks the ringing clock with as much force as a heavy metal drummer. He turns around and accidentally trips on a shoebox, emptying its contents. A trail of dark brown liquid is meandering on the marble tiles. There is a pair of worn-out ballet slippers peeking out of the shoebox now, dangerously close to the spilt coffee. It takes a fraction of a second for Leon to whisk the slippers away.

By no ordinary amount of agility, or perhaps a stroke of luck, Leon manages to evade soiling them. He exhales in relief then leaves the room and walks across the hallway. He stands in front of a door and rocks back and forth on his heels, clutching the pink treasure tightly against his chest. He takes a good look around before reaching for the doorknob, but suddenly, a voice emerges from behind.

"Good morning," an old lady says.

"Oh, Mrs. Mort." Leon gives the woman a slight nod.

She leans forward and offers a smile. Leon does not move, and Mrs. Mort's eyes eventually drop from his face to the shoes in his hands. Suddenly, she freezes. Her face pales, and a ghostly shade of white takes over.

Leon coughs quickly. "Mrs. Mort?"

"Has it really been another year?" she asks. No answer comes from Leon, who does not even seem to register the question. "Leon," she speaks up, louder this time.

"Mrs. Mort, there's really no time for this. I don't want to be late."

Her eyes grow wide, and something that almost resembles sympathy grows as well.

"Late..." she hesitates at first, wishing that she dropped the subject matter earlier. But she decides to press the bruise further, hoping that the pain will snap some sense back into the patient. "Late for what, exactly?"

He barks a sharp laugh and says, "You don't remember? Freya's performing tonight."

And with that, Leon brushes past the lady and storms into the room. He locks the door and places the slippers gently on the floor. His eyes are glistening with a mad gleam of excitement.

Inside, the walls are coated with a creamy layer of fresh paint. Leon walks towards the bed and smooths out the newly purchased linen. It was a difficult task, finding all decorative items in the room, not to mention the additional work of colour coordinating everything. While most people would consider this as a tedious (and pointless) chore, it was the closest thing to recreation for Leon. Some of the items in the room include a desk lamp, beautiful coral curtains, a gramophone and a nightlight – Freya never sleeps without it.

It sticks

on any surface.

It hangs itself

on your bedroom wall

(a menacing stare