Rotting_Ink
patreon
Mad Heir: Introduction to Yvesway House
🕑 Added 2025-07-05 01:32:28 +0000 UTC
Sleeping. Sleeping in the attic, like servants did before, sometimes a child, all looking out the same semi circular window, and when the moon drifted into place, it showed what was always there to begin with, an eye looking back.
A moment to breach. $cthey inhale deeply, as if $they hadn't breathed for just a minute too long. Eyes flicking open, darting back and forth wildly before settling on an empty spot. A moth scuttles to and fro, as if unsure how to escape $their eye-line. When $their eyes finally do shut, it flutters its wings and lazily flaps to the window. It lands. A breath, a heart beat, a thought.
A resounding tap. A finger against a thin wall. A knock on the door. Drifting up through the still house. So many empty beds. The chef comes up from the town at the bottom of the winding hill. Scared to sleep in the manor, with half its face sunken in from disrepair. The caretaker's bed, folded neatly, untouched. Not back. Not yet. But soon. Always returning, to lift, to tuck, to care, to take. The only heartbeat in the house in the attic, throbbing incessantly against the night's pressure, weighing against the house, the walls, the roof, all of it bending under the strain.
Again, awake. Tongue dry again. But water out of reach. Sweating in the warm air. Legs cramping. Or mending. What is the difference between an ache to hurt and a ache to heal? Whether you have medicine on hand maybe. Out of reach. The bottle glowing under the moonlight. A holy grail to put you back to sleep.
You do that anyway. Back down down down, water rushing over your face. The pond in the garden. Circled with stones with holes in them. Grown over with scum, even with the incessant raking of the gardener. Maybe not so incessant. Maybe halfheartedly dragging at the algae before a match strikes and smoke curls up as the stagnant gardener stares up at the windows, waiting for a curtain to lift or a shadow to move or a window to open or a door to close. Nothing, and the cigarette is left in the stagnant water, and footsteps leading back to the cottage.
Once more, awake. The night is forever. Waiting for the light to break and a door to open and a cold hand to lift $their chin and make the pain go away again. Maybe the heart wants that cane tapping against the floor, a cold hand, fingers stiff against $their forehead. $ctheir foot gives a twitch, like the last spasm of a dying animal. Waiting, just like $them, for a dawn to break and a sun to rise.
Back down. Just floating now. Waiting. Drifting on the water. Unaware that a light is slowly making its way up from deep below in the valley, held aloft, like a lone firefly making its way up, leaving the happy and sane and the good behind. Making its way up to Yvesway House. Back home.
[[And you finally wake to the sun once more.|0.5]]
Comments
Sandpixie
Poetry👏
