An Opening without A Tale

In this piece, we get a look at a soul whose life is barely a life, whose days begin in the same manner every day. She longs for change, futility holding her still. And we learn that change is coming, but that in some way she was displeased with its arrival. I do intend to continue this eventually, but it may take some time to write the second and third parts.

Every morning, the first light of dawn shined through the window. It was the first sensation I had, even before I felt the weight of my blankets upon me. Even before my fool of a cat slapped me in the face with her tail. Not even my inevitably demanding bladder made itself known before the morning sun blinded me.

As my otherwise soft skin baked in the beams of life illuminating my bed chamber, I slowly gained a measure of consciousness that could almost be described as awake, but the intense pressure of sleep still held a firm grip upon my mind. I began to breathe deeply and consider the sensations coming to the front. It was my way of bringing my mind into the present. That was how I always knew the order in which my mornings began.

Sun shining in. Deep breath. Blankets keeping me secure. Deep breath in. Pangs of hunger creeping their way into my awareness. Deep breath out. The gentle caress of a soft tail on my lips followed by three impatient slaps. Deep breath. Pressure alerting me to my natural needs.

I moved to a sitting position as the satin flat sheet carried the heavy blankets from my shoulders to my waist as though a stream were slipping along the banks of my skin, a strange liquid begging to break free of its otherworldly form. As I swung my feet over the edge of the bed, that flowing body halfheartedly followed me until it was captured by its own limits. Mimicking those motions, my hair had swept from its home on the pillow and gently swept its way to my back, a featherlight touch, but a quickly damping pendulum that carried my head with it for a moment.

My legs instinctively retracted as my toes made contact with the icy floor, and I felt a smile stretch across my lips as I cursed my continued unwillingness to purchase a carpet or even a throw rug to dampen that discomfort. Remembering myself in that space, I gently pushed weight onto my feet and felt the warmth leave through my soles as the temperature of the floor began to equalise from my influence. As my muscles tightened, gravity fought to keep my rear firmly planted on the edge of the bed, but I would not be defeated by the same force that had recently failed to keep mankind planted firmly on the ground. Not I. Not that day.

The first step in the direction of the private room was always the most trying. All of my figure leaned chaotically toward the right as the support of my leg was removed, and my elbow groaned as I successfully caught myself. Sophia let out an encouraging squeal as I carefully returned to the upright position. She was quite the loyal and supportive cat, and she had been since she had first joined the household.

The second step away from the bed was always the most trying. While I had recovered my balance, the chill of the floors always managed to shock me into complete attention, no matter how much I expected that moment. One might think that I could have become acclimated to the experience in the time between standing and taking that second step, but alas, I was always a tremendously warm soul.

The third step into the open area of the bed chamber was always the most trying. Like clockwork every day, I missed the relevant cues to carry my own weight as my right foot once again found the solid floor. And in the same manner, I found myself sprawled on the floor, any lingering sleep still laying siege to my mind and body finally defeated by the full body chill of the floor on my bare skin.

It was ten seconds of effort to return to standing, the first five of which were always a matter of taking two deep breaths and arguing with myself about whether I should truly begin my day or retreat to the quiet safety of the double full bed I had just forced myself to leave. Most days, the bed did not win. Most days I made myself face the world. It was only a rarity that I gave in to that secure warmth waiting just a few steps away. I could crawl to it if I must, and I would if the bed were to triumph in the never ending battle between propriety and cosiness. Indeed, those days when the bed claimed victory were days when shame was not only a foreign word but also a sinful concept to even attempt to consider.

Assuming I returned to standing, joints crying out the entire journey, I always allowed myself a moment to breathe. For if bed days were the antithesis of shame, life days were its primary nourishment, and they allowed shame to control many aspects of my life, whether I was proud of that fact or not.

The fourth step of the morning, which was truly the first step into the responsibilities of the day, was always the most trying. It was an admission that I was not yet ready to give up on the world, this life, this horrid cycle of incessant experiences, which made it a grave challenge and prevented me from making it lightly.

“I choose,” left foot began to raise, “to manage this day,” toes left the floor, “with all the fervour,” knee flexed as it carried the leg forward, “and all the strength,” knee straightened, bringing the heel of my left foot to the floor, “that it deserves,” weight begins carrying forward into the next step, “which is none.”

As morning affirmations go, it was as defiant as I could allow myself, and it always felt like just enough rage to carry me the rest of the way to the private room. Not into the private room, as there was always one more challenge awaiting me. Six more steps after the fourth step of the morning, and the rough, rigid jamb of the door into the private room caught my limp, lanky left shoulder hard and sent me back two steps, reeling in soreness and exhaustion. Sophia whimpered sympathetically, knowing how this wounded me. If not physically, it certainly wounded my pride to have done this every day for at least the last fifteen years. Since my family moved into this house.

Righting myself, I entered the private room and managed my morning ablutions and moved to the washroom, fifteen steps, where my steamy bath was waiting for me.

The scrubbing tools of the bath changed now and again. There was a trend of washing cloths being used at one point. There was a new fruit like thing they called a loofah, which when dried became an excellent scrubber. There was the phase of wire brushes. That did not last long. At one point, some folks even used fishing nets. And as with all trends, these things seemed to return in cycles. Most recently it has been something akin to what one would have if they found a way to blend the structure of a loofah with the texture of a washing cloth.

As the first of the scrubbing began, my nose tickled with the scent of cherries and vanilla from the soap reacting with the bath water. My skin appreciated the feeling of the scrubber, which seemed to scrape at the first several layers of my dermis and left behind the silkiest surface one could imagine of a fully grown woman.

As I finished rinsing the soap from my extremities, a new aroma filled the space. Lavender, spearmint, and bergamot. The shampoo’s fragrance was aggressive and space-filling, and it was largely why I had garnered the attentions of several past lovers. In certain moments, the combination of those smells sometimes brought a warmth to my deepest parts, but never when bathing. I gently massaged the shampoo into my scalp and quickly rinsed it. I had only ever made the mistake of leaving it on my scalp for an extended period once.

As I pulled the terrycloth towel from its wall mounted rack, it swept down and brushed my legs as one of the corners dipped into the water, which itself never drained quite quickly enough to avoid that outcome. As always, I swore under my breath and wrapped the coarse fabric around myself, swearing that the next day would be different. It never was.

I stepped out of the bath and took the thirty steps from the washroom to the closet space and found the clothes I had set out for myself the evening before. A scarlet dress with deep blush accents adorned with silver buttons and soft ribbon in mint that tightened the dress to my figure when worn properly. It was always that way. I owned seven of almost the exact same dress. The only times I wore a different dress or any sort of gown were when I was invited to go courting, as it were. Before I could put myself to dressing, Sophia let out what can only be describe as a lecherous purr. Her interests were clearly at least somewhat varied from convention.

Upon fully dressing, I took the seventeen steps from the closet to the top of the stairs. Most days, I would descend the stairs at that time and eat a bland breakfast in preparation for whatever errands I was to face in the coming hours. Some days, though, I immediately retired to the second study, which my mother had once used as somewhat of a studio for her works, though it now stood quiet unless I had an inkling of energy to enter the space and create something myself.

If I did not cower from the tasks of the day, I would descend the twenty-three steps, stopping at the window at the sixteenth step to take in a view of the day’s look. Absently, my hand would raise to just above the sill of the window and find Sophia waiting for its arrival. Three pets, and the remaining steps brought me to the open foyer, where I would simply stand in awe of the fact that I had somehow once again successfully descended to the ground floor without tumbling to my doom.

It is a large foyer, so it was thirty steps to the doorway into the dining. Only to the doorway because my right shoulder somehow always managed to kiss the door jamb just as my left always seemed flirtatious with the doorway of the private room upstairs. After recoiling two steps and cursing for probably the eighth time since waking, I walked forward another seven steps and took the seat at the head of the table, where a simple breakfast already awaited.

The warmth of a lightly toasted slice of bread brought joy to an otherwise mundane morning. The thick porridge that awaited me breathed a new life into my soul. It always did. A cup of my favoured tea served to cleanse my palate, and I stood from the table to face the day.

That was how it went every morning, without change, from the time my parents left me to manage the estate, later falling to an unfortunate accident that could not have been expected, nor prevented. My life was less life and more a recording of a facsimile of a poem about a book about a life. And I felt that every time my morning began in this repetitive manner. It was a gift to have no worries, but it was a curse to have no mysteries. And as such, my life continued in such an unwavering fashion for many years, and it likely would continue to do so if allowed to do so.

But that life, that rut, that intensely interminable sixth-hand experience of life was not to last forever, even had I managed somehow to do so.

How I wish it would have continued a bit longer.