A Wasted Life, Beth Stafford [snow like ashes series .TXT] 📗

A Wasted Life

    The room is dim, shadows cloaking every surface. The air is humid, an almost palpable stale; I ignore my urge to open a window and continue on. The carpet is soft beneath my feet, the long, shaggy piles intertwining with my bare toes. I barely make a sound as I move through the room, my husky breathing my sole companion.
    And then I see it, the promise of light. It glimmers from around the corner, undulating as if caught in a gentle breeze. I can get a better bearing on my surroundings, now. The floral wallpaper is yellowed and peeling, exposing rotted beams of wood that pulse with the presence of termites within. Angled shelves adorn the wall, empty glass bottles coated with dust teetering precariously on their edges. A cat snakes its way around my ankles, staring up at me with intense, mismatched eyes. Its fur is matted and sleeked with dirt; what I assume was once a white cat is now a ruddy brown.
    I continue around the corner, self-consciously pulling at the hem of my shirt, winding it around my fingers. I cannot remember why I’m here, or even how I got here. I can hear the crackle of flame, feel its warmth seeping through my clothes. I force my feet onward, force myself to face whatever it is I was brought here to face. Just a little further now.
    I see the fire first, roaring and built-up high in a bricked hearth. It licks at the walls above, making them charred and blackened. The air is even staler here, weighed down with the acrid stench of old perfume.
    “Sweetheart, you look a fright!”
    I jump, much to my displeasure. My skin prickles with sudden fear, the hair on the nape of my neck standing to astute attention. I tug at my shirt again, by now stretching the fabric beyond repair.
    “Please, take a seat. There’s much we have to discuss.”
    An arthritic hand extends from the gloom, beckoning me over. I hesitate, stealing a glance back down the hallway.
    “I insist.”
     I do as she says, slowly lowering myself into a faded green armchair. The material is rough against my skin, chafing my bare forearm. Once again I’m struck by an intense feeling of being lost, as if I’ve stumbled into someone else’s life and don’t know how to get out of it. The old woman and I stare at each-other, her wiry grey hair forming a wild halo around her face. She tugs at the threadbare shawl draped across her shoulders, the gesture making my stomach writhe. There’s something about this woman I recognise. Something familiar, something close to home.
    “Do you know who I am?”
    The question rings through the silence like an accusation, her words pointing a judgemental finger at me. I shake my head, avoiding her gaze.
    She reaches up, her gnarled hands never unfurling from their clenched position. She wraps her fingers around a switch, and the room is flooded with a muted yellow light. The lamp next to her shudders slightly, the fringing around the lampshade quivering.
    Now that it’s not so dim I can see her properly. Her hair isn’t completely grey, as I’d assumed, but speckled with slivers of brown. Her green eyes are deep-set, ringed with an intricate maze of creases. She has on a grotesquely red shade of lipstick, which has bled onto the surrounding skin like a stain. She smiles at me, her lips drawing over rows of yellowed and crooked teeth.
    She reaches out again, her hand lying across my knee. Her skin is papery and flaking, smudged with dull brown marks. I desperately want to pull away, but I force myself to sit still.
    “What about now? Recognise me yet?”
    I narrow my eyes at her, scrutinising every feature, every wrinkle, every hair. Yes, she looks very familiar. In fact, if I didn’t know better, she could be my own grandmother. She smiles at me again, her powdered face cracking with the strain.
    “I once sat where you sit now, and believe me, I didn’t quite grasp the situation either.”
    I give her an uncomprehending look. “What do you mean?”
    “They say youth is wasted on the young; what do you say to that?”
    I shrug. “It’s probably true.”
   “Probably? Sweetheart, it’s the truest thing ever said.”
    She chuckles to herself, removing her hand from my knee and folding it in her lap.
    “Why am I here?”
    “To learn,” her smile disappears. “To take note. If only I had all those years ago, neither of us would be here right now.”
    I’m drowning in my own confusion, and I do a bad job of hiding it.
    “When I was your age, I was arrogant. I expect you’re not much different, although you’d never admit it.”
    I shift awkwardly in my chair, trying to avoid her gaze.
    “Take a closer look at me. See me, see who I am.”
    I shuffle forward, peering at her so closely I can smell the lingering scent of soap on her clothes. She must be a relative of some sort, surely. We have the same eyes, green and deep-set, peppered with flecks of brown. Our nose has the same up-turn, the same narrow bridge. Even the way she composes herself, the way she tugs at her shawl, is identical to the way I compose myself. I feel myself grow cold, goosebumps sprouting up my arms.
    “Do you see it now?” Her voice is soft, but urgent. “We are one in the same.”
    I spring to my feet. “That’s not possible.”
    “Oh, but it is,” she says, holding her wrist up to my face. We have the same crescent birthmark, nestled like a brand in the exact same spot. I back away from her, shaking my head.
    “I’ve lived a life of arrogance, of bitterness, of holding era-long grudges against the people I love the most,” she too gets to her feet, and she walks toward me with the air of a woman much younger than herself. “As a result, I alienated myself from my friends and family. I’ve lived a life of loneliness, sadness… Sorrow.”
    I look around at the bare walls; not a single family portrait, not a single smiling face. The empty walls glare at me, asking to be filled with memories, memories only I can provide.
    “Don’t make the same mistakes I made,” she says, encircling my hands in her own. “You’ve been given this chance so that you don’t squander your life the way I squandered mine.”
    As she speaks my mind wanders to my best friend; I haven’t spoken to her in three years, the reasons forgotten now but the grudge still lingers. I think of my brother, who I barely see because of a petty spat, long since swallowed in the sands of time. Why do I push them away?
    “Don’t end up like me,” she says, taking a seat once more. “Forgive always, love always, live always. Avoid a wasted life.”

Publication Date: 08-19-2012

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