When I was eight I woke up in the house of my grandmother. The walls were closing in on my fragile framework. My head was swelling with accommodation of inert gases. And it was a dark and dreary night.
I searched the entirety of the far from contemporary house with nostalgia, for my grandmother. I did not hear the echoes of her warmly voice. Neither did I feel the presence of my ailing grandfather.
It did not slightly occur to me that they might have been there with me. The shrill voices I heard in the background could have been theirs. And maybe the heated expanding air that made me feel light headed and numb could have been their exhalation.
The house was unembellished black and the rooms were all the same. I could have been standing on the head of my grandmother and not have known. But then the wrath of my grandfather would have been incurred. All his life and more so in his youth, he had had to safeguard my grandmother like diamond, from heist, because of her effusive beauty but that had been in a time when the unforeseen athleticism of his limbs had been predominant. Now he was only a sack of floating mass, ticking steadily to the end of him and the beginning of what was once silent in him.
It was a cool night in mid-August and the clocks were striking midnight. Lenena Borg had tucked him in bed in a bid to combat the aggressive cold, slipped away into the night for sinister activities although not quick enough to prevent him from wandering. I was he; Lenena Borg, my mother. I had thought I woke up at my grandmother’s. She didn’t have a house. It was my grandfather’s except that it was destroyed years before I was born. It was all a blur.