Britain's Storage Room Cleaning - APH Fanfic

The Cleaning

     If you're looking for a heartwarming account of my emotional and poetic conversion, you've come to the wrong place. The monotonous rainfall that washed my little part of the world this morning set the mood better for habitual ventures rather than heroics and butterflies. A day, hardly what you could call climactic, but not entirely uneventful. Sometimes an unruffled stroll down Memory Lane is just what a fellow needs, am I right?

     However the day was destined to play out, an extraordinary twenty-four hours was the least I expected as I blew steam off my tea cup and snuggled deeper into my armchair. I woke at an ungodly hour for no reason this morning. So naturally I had to make myself an early morning cuppa. Extra caffeinated, the only remedy for lack of sleep. Outside my drawing room window, not even the palest light could yet be seen within the warm cloud settled low to the earth. Besides the sporadic flashes of the occasional lightning bolt, the sky was still in a deep black slumber.

     From here I watched a couple rose leaves outside the window at my elbow bobbing under the weight of water beads dropping from the eaves. I sat sipping my tea when the mist was just freckling the stone pathway. I stayed there, a few cups later, until the stepping stones and gravel were all soggy gray with the accumulated specks. The pattering of the rain stimulated the eardrums but was still droning enough to entertain my drowsiness.

      I know, I know. You didn't come here to read poetry about the rain. In short, these three ceiling-high windows framed the perfect picture of the landscape. It's my house's ideal view of a shower. And clearly I didn't have any better way to waste the hours left before my meeting with America at noon.

     Actually, I lied when I said I woke up for no reason. Really, I never slept. I spent the night tossing and turning uneasily due to the lonely wonderings consuming my mind...again. Yes, I knew it would be a passing fancy just like it always is. Of course my brothers were only trying to get in my head by telling me I was the black sheep of Europe. But just like every time before, knowing those things wouldn't make the feeling ebb any faster. And being mesmerized by the rain warded off my conscience for only so long. Before the grandfather clock in the kitchen struck seven, I had already given in to the urge to go "clean" my storage room again.

     By "cleaning" I meant to go tidy up the attic as an excuse to undust old remembrances lying hidden in the junk I've refused to throw away. Why am I wont to do this when I'm already feeling down? Beats me. Maybe because history books allude that I, Great Britain, have always been a cocky glutton for punishment. Specifically that I'm fittingly destined for a life of seclusion. There's never been much of an argument otherwise. But today was one of those days I pondered the futile hope that there is an argument in my defense buried somewhere in the past.

    Somewhere along the line I found myself musing the fact that, of all my old colonies that deserted me, America was undoubtedly my closest. Yet it seemed he was the falling pebble that inspired the avalanche of the rest to deplete my empire. I told myself this morning that if I could recall what I did that chased even him off, maybe I'd understand why I still have no lasting friends today. In spite of the unlikelihood of results, I'd be lying if I said I walked into the storage room without hope.

. . . 

     Shoving a hand into my plaid distressed jeans pocket, I withdrew a ring of keys. Eventually I picked out the right one and fit it into the lock of the dullest door in the hall. I glanced over my shoulder as if afraid someone would catch me in the middle of something private. Yeah, it was a stupid fear. Besides myself, the two servants are the only ones around; and it was too early even for them to be up. Besides, they could care less if I keep the room locked as long as they see a paycheck every week.