Endgame

Endgame (Pt. 4, Vincent)

Helena chuckles, undoing her tie and pulling off her servant’s gloves. “Gee, I don’t know. Why don’t you try paying more attention to your midnight exploits? Or perhaps tried getting hurt less often, Vinky-dinky?”  

I don’t answer, I know my partner has made a point. Constantly I’ve tried to undermine the Gorgon household- Night after night. Helena has been good to me, and nonetheless extremely loyal. “Vincent, I’m trying. Trying to be the noble’s best friend isn’t exactly easy, you know.” She sighs and turns her back to me, then striding out the door.

“Hey...” Is all I manage, a single protest against her rashness.

Helena and I have known each other for only several months- We’ve lived off the remains of shared food, roof, and bed. Everything we own never lasts long. Occasionally I see mice scurry across the cracked wooden floors of our warehouse, and moths feed on our blankets. Food? ‘Scraps’ is better term used by nobles. Helena and I live off of each other. Her company saves me from the insanity of loneliness. She’s my companion- And my servant.

Silence fills my warehouse, except from the occasional squeaking of mice and dripping of water. A sigh rocks my chest, and carefully I lower myself onto my back.  My eyes shiftily focus on the arched ceiling. Helena has not left the warehouse- Our temporary shelter is too large to leave and navigate through easily. Our only home was a maze. “Helena,” I remember our chance encounter. My chest caves in, and I pull myself up against the wall, gagging slightly. Air. My hands scramble for my throat, uselessly clawing at the pale, thin skin. I feel as if I am choking on lava, drowning in the airless fire. “Helen-” I sputter, white-hot pain racing through my extended, grasping arms.

There is nothing but the fire in my chest, and the empty space of this abandoned room.

               {JUNE VII:00 AM}

I had met Helena on a warm and humid night. I was nothing but a loitering boy, wandering the outskirts of his home- One of the very few possessions he owned. There was nothing unusual then- Life had run on a schedule. Days repeated over and over again.

It was early June, and I pondered the meaning of masses such as life and death. I was nine, ten- Even my own age was vague. Time had sand-like properties. Time was disposable, then.

I was happy, sitting in the shade of an old tree  and staring blankly at a large and over-decorated building. It did not take me long to read the plaque that settled like a vulture over the iron gates. “Res...ting,” I had begun to enunciate. “Home...”

Resting Home.

I was curious and reckless (A trait which I never lost, Helena tells me), and stumbled to my leaden knees. The ‘Resting Home’ awaited exploration, and was abandoned. At least, it was what my mother and father had warned. Everything in that city, our city, was under our supervision. Mother and father’s world was my world.

My journey to that strange building is blurred and hazy. I was not concerned with possibly getting lost, or injuring myself. Pulled up weeds and sticks lined the pavement I walked. Distinctly I remember it was a cloudy day, and had rained the night before. My feet left trails in the brown liquid, and the wind whispered gently at my back.

The walk had taken no more than five minutes, and I was soon perched upon the estate’s gates. The contraption creaked in protest as I sheathed my knife. It was lodged within the rusting metal, and was an unnecessary foothold. Even if the building was abandoned, I didn’t want hostile attention; it’s not like I had been allowed to infiltrate ‘Resting Homes’, anyway. Whom am I to listen to such orders? Whether or not my family served a greater power meant nothing to me. The very idea of restriction suffocates me.