| rdfs:comment | - What began as a foggy morning turned a sinister corner, following the mail I received. Within this small, unassuming box I pondered the reagents of my clockwork slowly grinding to a halt. This box, however, is not the culprit. I took the box in hand, and tossed it aside without a moment's hesitation, expecting some useless nick-nack or some unnecessary piece of garbage I've come to expect. However, upon second glance I notice the name of a sender I could not possibly have expected. Under hazy light of dawn's first break crashing through the doorway, I read silently, "Aria Weiss."
|
| abstract | - What began as a foggy morning turned a sinister corner, following the mail I received. Within this small, unassuming box I pondered the reagents of my clockwork slowly grinding to a halt. This box, however, is not the culprit. I took the box in hand, and tossed it aside without a moment's hesitation, expecting some useless nick-nack or some unnecessary piece of garbage I've come to expect. However, upon second glance I notice the name of a sender I could not possibly have expected. Under hazy light of dawn's first break crashing through the doorway, I read silently, "Aria Weiss." As one can discern, this worried me greatly. While not family, this young lady was dear to me as a friend, at least. The package loomed in my hand, as all other thoughts evacuated my mind -- something between paranoia and displacement replaced them. With a swift motion, the box popped open on both sides, enabling me sight into its contents. Here we find the culprit; as the box splits open there are two items held within its bowels. An envelope, relatively cumbersome at one end and filled to bursting with yet unidentifiable papers. The other is a book. A thick, leather-bound book clasped by tiny padlock in the shape of a heart. Staring deeply into that box, an overwhelming sense of trepidation washes over me, as I slowly lift the book from the box. I gaze at its fine worksmanship, its exquisite leather, and its lovely iron accenting. A heavy thing of times much older, or at least made by hands not accustomed (or pretend very well not to be) to today's manufacturing circuit. I lay the book aside, as the clock on the wall remains my only reminder that time still exists. However, as I touch the paper constructing the envelope, time seemed to stand still. A moment became an eternity of blood draining slowly from my face. In a cold sweat, I swallowed hard. What could possibly be contained within? I ran my finger along its fold, hoping that this sense of dread would be all for naught. Perhaps this is the money she owes me? Perhaps this is some kind of joke? Perhaps -- I unfold the envelope, to find photographs. No fewer than one dozen, but strange and blurred -- as though taken with shaking hands and developed with faltered body, stressed with fatigue. There was always something going on with Aria related to photography. I have no doubt that she took and developed these photos within her home, but for what purpose? And why send them to me -- I realize. These photographs were taken from inside her home. The hair on the back of my neck turned up as I looked at them closely -- the doors and windows, boarded from the inside. Mirrors broken, shattered against their will. Her bedroom completely demolished. Her bed against the once gorgeous picture window, covering it with the curtains strewn overtop. The walls scratched and torn, furniture no less than smashed or broken. Pieces of wood, shards of glass, hunks of indescribably mangled metal all indiscriminately littering the floor and corners. Repulsed, I looked away from the photographs. I looked again to the book on the couch beside me. I then pondered the weighy envelope, now devoid of its other occupants. I picked it up, as a pair of miniscule keys fell into my hand. Each shaped of a heart and made of iron, matching the leather-bound tome beside me. I snatched up the book, and attempted to remove the padlock. I felt my gut wrench, a flash of every photograph echoed in my recent memory, as the lock opened with a soft click. I removed it, and unraveled the thick leather strap binding the hardback together. Its pages free, they opened to the first page. Her diary lay in my hands. Some hours passed, detailing meaningless facts and figures, notes of the weather and what games she'd played. She is a notable video game journalist, after all; her thoughts and opinions matter much to some people. I grew somewhat bored of the dull, listless droning of hating this game, adoring another. Break the monotony with something mediocre, but altogether leaving my thirst unquenced. I had began to believe that this was indeed some kind of joke, but I was unfortunately incorrect, as I reached a section of her diary dating of around three months prior to receiving this package.
|
