London, Amber’s house


She lowered her head and turned away. Cold and sorrow blowing with the wind. Silence, denial. She didn’t look him in the eye, afraid. He kept staring at the ground, confused. Emotions rushing but numbness overwhelming. She couldn’t think. Harry and Amber just stood there, the cold surrounding them. None able to accept their feelings. Proud, hurt beings, not even tiredness releasing their souls. Two beautiful creatures listening to the omnipresent silent. Why couldn’t she move her legs? Say good-bye and leave? Amber was yearning for the lingering touch. Stolen feelings he should have never robbed. How dare he? How, could he? His hand slowly left her waist. After all he didn’t care. Why would he fight for her affection? He just wanted flesh and screams. No moans and strokes.


Amber still wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes fleeing his. He knew it, she hated him, she couldn’t bring herself to care for him. It was his own fault. His flaws made him lose the warm hidden feelings. Only the black comforting darkness would stay true to him.


“- I’ll see you tomorrow.”, he blankly stated, shutting her out. Almost as a whisper, Amber simply answered:

“- Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow.”, glancing at the hurt and slight anger in his eyes. Who was she to expect anything?


Her work seemed hallow, she was a simple pawn. Full of tailored dresses and no relevant words. A doll didn’t deserve to ask anything. She wanted to dance, forget. Slowly her thoughts wandered to the land of dreams as she fell into a deep slumber.


✼ ✼ ✼

About 10 o’clock the next morning, Ms Anderson, Amber’s Manager was fiercely knocking on the old wooden door. She had already left a thousand messages on this useless girl’s phone. However only silent answered. If this scene was a movie a small gust of wind with orange leaves would have passed just to point it out.


Anger rose and she stepped into the small hedge under the nearby window. The blinds were still shut and no lights seemed to be on. She couldn’t be sleeping with all the rampage she had done. After searching for a few minutes, Ms Anderson found her way to the back-garden. The wall was low, the windows large and no neighbours were peeping. With her tight skirt and high stiletto heels she climbed over the damn wall and fell in the muddy bushes below. Her tights were torn and white blouse ruined. Not discouraged by the pain in her right wrist she stumbled to the house. After a quick prayer and an ounce of anger for her boss making her do this, she took a stone and broke the window.


It took her a few minutes and cuts before she could climb over the rim. Why did movies make it look so easy? Everything about her was ruined: the hair, the missing hearing, the torn tights and now skirt as well, the filthy blouse… Amber was so going to pay for this! With a broken heel she wandered in Amber’s narrow house.


It was oddly modern compared to outside facade of the house. She was in the kitchen, white, grey and clean; in line with the humble moulding on the ceiling. The only decoration was the blond timbering. The wood giving the house a charming glow. And books. They were everywhere: on the white shelves, the old desk, the large kitchen table, the counter, the study. Old or new, some seemed to have lived a thousand lives. Others hardly had a crack on their binding. Amber’s presence could be felt everywhere, in the ligneous chairs, the leather couch, the velvet armchair. A beige tweed cover was scattered on the couch. She opened the blinds, the large windows letting the sunlight flow in the room.


Her ballet gear was all in the living room, still in a bag. Three points were hanging on the wall. All neatly placed in a row. One was signed, the other had the name of the performance written under. The middle one was the smallest. It must have been Amber’s first pair.
She had to admit, it was a harmonious home. Full of personality and passion. She did not see any pictures or photos of her or a family. The low glass table in the living room seemed to be crumbling, but something else caught her eye.

Notes

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