The Purple Door

I found myself in front of the shop again, as I often do, saddened by the wear and tear of times ravaging touch. It holds the pieces of my past in stasis, my recollections wrapped up in a colorful butterfly’s cocoon of memories, each to be taken out and remembered as time allows.

The last time I had passed this way I had promised myself to find out who owned her now, and to see if perhaps I could make her mine again. But with so much discord in my life over the past few months, my priorities had been rearranged.

The purple door is faded now, the paint peeling and falling away in large chunks, the hinges that hold it in its wobbled state layered in rust. The last time I had been here, the door had still been locked, but now it looked as if urts were not the only ones using it as a living space.

I had managed to squeeze between the heavy half hinged door and the frame, trying to see a room which used to be my inner sanctum. I had loved it here. I had been happy here, if only for a short time. The floor was littered with debris, strewn with glass and bits of leaves, wood and furs, an animal’s treasure trove of hiding and building. I wished the haunted vacancy was mine once again.

I’ve always thought of the small two story building that resided behind an alley off the Great Square as a she, and though I had never named her, the welcoming aura that she exuded was definitely feminine.

I hadn’t expected to be caught in the act of investigation, but the whisper that hailed behind me in offering of help had my breath catching in misery with the knowledge I was no longer alone. I tried to turn, but my body was effectively wedged between the door and the door’s frame, my options limited. I could back out and chance running into him, or move forward into the darkened womb of the front room. Neither was a choice to my liking. I told him that I had once owned the building and that I had been curious. I then asked him to back away so that I could remove myself from my idiotic induced trapped. But instead of backing away, he closed in; admitting the place now belonged to him.

I am not a woman easily riled. The many years in the company of Castor had dampened any pre-destined proclivities of temper that might have manifested had he otherwise not been in my life. And when he reached up to extend his arm past my shoulder and shoved the door open, my decision was made to move forward as I heard the wood begin to snap. It was a decision I hoped I did not regret. He had called my home, or once home, a dump. And though it was true, the place in much need of repair, the word brought a stabbing pain to my heart, a pain that I tried to regurgitate in order to no longer experience its suffering. I was finding that I was having a hard time releasing what was once .. mine.

When I turned to accuse him of speaking ill of my house, I was quickly reminded by fleeting thoughts that the house no longer belonged to me. I could feel him staring at me, perhaps studying me as if I were some test bug under the magnification of a microscope, but as of yet, his features were shadowed within the hood of a dark, perhaps black cloak. Both Kurrost and the Assassin that I had read for in the Square, the one I was sure had sent me the threats forced me to believe that perhaps this was more than a chance meeting; I do not rely on coincidences.

The table was still there, laying in wait in front of the shattered window. I moved towards it, the blade of memories slashing in my mind. I touched the top of it and watched small fairy pools of dust set to a ballet of dancing flight, seen through the light of slatted shutters. I was trying to assemble my thoughts in some semblance of rational realization. I wasn’t doing so well, and so, to keep the conversation flowing, I began to describe parts of his new purchase. I ended with the a question though, if he might consider selling it back to me. He would not. But it did offer me to take whatever I wanted.

I could only think of one thing that was destined to be mine.

When he moved to the outside window and threw open the shutters, I backed away, my hand lifting to shade my eyes from the bright light. There was something oddly familiar about the man, a sense of deja' vu invading the miasma that tended to wrap around me. I was certain we had met before, but as of yet, I’d still not seen his face. He answered my question with another question. Not quite denial, but neither was it confirmation. I was sure we had though. I could feel it.

The shop sign over the door. I wanted it, my small memento of a time when I had been liberated and alone and had only Charm to worry about.

It was only when he was again held in the light of day, in retrieval of my request that I could see his cloak was not black at all, but green. A very dark green. But was it a caste color, or a color of choice? I had wanted to ask.

I thanked him for allowing me to have it and moved out the door, my arms wrapping around the dirty slab of wood and holding it against me as if were some sort of magical shield. Perhaps it was the anomaly of protection that had me turning around to face him again, so that I could ask a question, or rather, a favor. I wanted to come back, to check on the progress of her, my structurally sound friend built of brick and wood. He agreed, so long as I warned him in advance. So I did. I warned him that I would return in two days time.

His name is Chance, which I find ironic, and he whispers like me. And like me, there is something wrong with his voice, a catch of damaged vocal chords that perhaps never healed properly.

I think I should have asked for my purple door as well.