Short Stories

Roseanne

The bright rays of sunshine snuck between the gap in the old and dusty brocade curtains in Roseanne Walker's living room. The light landed on the antique brass lamp on her mahogany end table. Though the lamp itself was turned off, the reflection of the light on the glass shade tricked the mind into thinking that it was on. A layer of dust coated the rest of the table; it was evident that it suffered from disuse.

The two matching leather armchairs on either side of the table sat empty as well, though Curtis Walker stood next to one of them, his arm draped over the back of the chair. In his hand was a clean white envelope, the flap hanging open and a yellow piece of paper barely visible inside. He held it loosely, but securely as if he didn't want to be holding it, but would not want it to fall to the carpeted floor.

Behind him were two dusty bookshelves, lined with titles covering every genre from lighthearted romance to nonfiction on the first men in the moon. Between the tightly packed books, there was the occasional picture frame. In one, Curtis stood with his two brothers, all of them wearing tuxedos. In another, a picture of a cat wearing a bow tie. A third depicted Roseanne herself, standing with a young boy in front of Niagara Falls. She wore a huge grin and a bright yellow raincoat, the boy in similar attire.

Curtis occasionally glanced at the third picture, and when he did, the slightest smile crossed his face. But then his eyes dropped and he seemingly forced himself to look back at the ground.

His body was angled towards that of a man across the room. He sat exactly in the middle of the leather loveseat that matched the two armchairs, half on one cushion and half on the other. His legs were crossed, revealing that under his dress slacks he wore pink polka dot socks. His gaze too was turned downward to the floor covered with a opulent red rug.

Though he shared some facial features with Curtis, this man was hardly the same. While Curtis seemed remorseful, this man seemed excited. And while Curtis respectfully stood, this man lounged on the loveseat. And instead of the envelope, this man had his cell phone in his hand, rapidly typing on its small keypad.

Above him was a grandfather clock, the time reading 4:03, though the time was actually 6:28. The pendulum sat still and the clock was silent, it's characteristic chime ringing no more. The once polished exterior seemed pristine from afar, but a closer look showed that it was battered and worn from years of time-keeping.

A third occupant of the room continually glanced at the grandfather clock, but shook his head every time he did. Instead of sitting, he leaned against the paneled wall next to the entrance to the room. He seemed the most distressed of all of them, his eyes red and his hands trembling. If one looked closely at him, he would see the corner of a white envelope in the left pocket of this man's jeans.

Curtis occasionally glanced at the third man, but always found it unreturned. There was a certain longing in his gaze that was only visible to the most observant eye. Whenever he looked at the third man, he found him staring at the other armchair in the room, opposite the one Curtis was leaning on.

It sat empty, though the misshapen cushions were a testament that it was frequently occupied. A bible sat next to the chair on the end table, opened to a certain page in Revelations. A layer of dust coated this too, as if the book was opened and forgotten about.

There was one final detail that sent shivers down the spines of the room's occupants. In front of the chair, almost hidden by the rug's fibers was a necklace. It was a golden color, though almost certainly not made from gold. At the end of its chain was a cross pendant. It seemed simple enough, but upon inspection there was an inscription on the back of it denoting a specific verse in Revelations. And most disturbingly, it was covered in blood.

Thick, red blood.