shadow aspect
The room smells vaguely of lavender and old carefully kept secrets. Windows—too long closed—allow in an anemic trickle of pale yellowish light, just enough to cast the room in a tint the color of a dead man’s still-growing fingernails.
He is waiting. Whenever you arrive—ten minutes early, ten minutes late—he is waiting. Patiently, carefully polite, but always waiting. He serves you tea—a little too sweet, a little too hot, a little more than you want. You ask the questions required by the Health Service, and as always, get the expected answers. Beautifully phrased answers delivered in a beautifully modulated voice, a voice that sounds like small stones dropped down a deep well. Answers that tell you nothing.
There are other questions you could ask. Questions not on the Health Service’s list, uncomfortable questions with answers you don’t want to hear. Questions that remain in your teacup. He’s always a wee bit sad when you stand to go. Sad, but smiling, carefully polite, patient, patient. When the door closes behind you, you hesitate before walking down the stairs, imagining he’s still standing there on the other side, waiting to see if you turn to ask those questions.
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