Lauren Gray

The Tower

When did it all begin? This obsession with death? Trailing monsters in the night? Waiting. Watching. Writing. Publishing. I profit off death. A mercenary of words. No death, no pay. No pay, no death. I begin to ask myself who the monster really is. The murderer? Me? Or the people who pay for death? The mystery. The thrill of the chase. Death. They want more and more. But I’m rambling again. What was my point? Oh, yes. The beginning.

The Tower

Chapter 1            

            Cobwebs of memory, such a clichéd phrase – I wouldn’t even put it in a penny novel – yet how else can I explain the haze, the sticky webs I find myself tangled in when I try to pull back the doors to the cupboard of my memory. Cupboard seems appropriate. I’ve managed to cram it all into a small space. Most people my age would have a chest of drawers, a wardrobe full of memories, but I prefer the present. And the only reason I even have a cupboard is to keep the past from being scattered all over my desk, hanging on walls, cluttering the floor, and tripping me in the middle of the night. But at the end of my life, I find the creeping urge to revisit these memories. To have a last look in the cupboards. Organize my things.

The Tower - A writer’s charm

            “It is midnight – no – the dark hour of the night – a shadow looms on the wall. The streetlight on the corner flickers, the shadow is gone. But there must be a shadow. There are always shadows when there is light. But this is a moving shadow. A shadow that creeps in the darkness. That is no shadow at all, you argue. A shadow requires light like a sailboat requires wind. But this is no ordinary shadow. This shadow attaches itself to the living. It silently follows your footsteps. Blends into walls when you turn to gaze behind you. No face. No name. Tonight it is on the prowl.”

            This is crap. Even I know it. Sailboat that requires wind – that’s not even creative. A weak metaphor. But the people love it. Why give them gems when they’ll eat shit and thank you for it? Ah, who am I kidding. I no longer have drawers full of writer’s gold anymore – spent it on love letters and my first novel – the only thing I can produce on a daily basis is shit. And of course I mean that literally as well as figuratively.

The Tower - Responsibility

I have unleashed a demon on the night. He prowls with my face, my tempers, my heartache, and haunts the ones I loved. But I cannot destroy him. For to destroy him I must destroy myself and old and despicable though I am, I cannot bring myself to do it. No, I am a fool, a coward, and worse immobile. If I would only move in some direction. Backward. Foreword. Then there would be hope for change. But I sit in my tower. I let my characters move for me. And look what I’ve done - nothing. They have loved and lived, moved mountains, accomplished more than I, but they have destroyed what I created, they have killed what I loved. They are horrible creatures of my imagination. And they have taken a life of their own.

The Tower - Memory

She stares out her window. The light shifts and leaves a shadow in her place. I can barely make out the faint haze left by her breath. I wish I were a giant so I could reach up and kiss the outer pane. Our lips separated by only a sheet of glass. Now she’s gone. Left the window. Our lips separated by more than glass. Time. Unsaid words. She is gone forever. But I do not know it yet.

The Tower - Character sketch

            The mirror on the wall is covered in grime, which as just as well because the man peering back at me does not look like me at all. When did my ears grow so large? With these sagging eyes, I would say I resemble something of a basset hound. But that would be a disservice to the dog, and I fear too much of a compliment for me. There’s something loveable about a basset hound, but me, well, I won’t lick your face.

The Tower - Prologue part two

            The house stretched before me like a leviathan, its large body spiked with merlons and the tower stood like a tail poised to strike. It has been a long time since I faced it directly. Sometimes I forget the sheer size of the thing. I am amazed to find the house still standing. Ivy grows up it façade, choking windows and doors alike. Pieces of the roof seemed to have fallen in, but still it stands. I haven’t been through its doors in half a century, always preferring the solitude of my tower. But then I remind myself the house has been empty for a long time. Has it really been 47 years?

            The tower door was not always so heavy. I used to be younger, stronger. The steps seem narrower, more treacherous. I find myself placing my foot carefully on each. Life, what is life? To grow old. That is life. To be filled with regret. That is my life. A wiser man would say one takes his fate in his hands. Molds it into what it should be. But I am not wise.

I will die alone. I am dying, you know. But so are you. Just not as quickly as I am. And it cannot come quickly enough. God. I sound like an angsty teenager.