Caravellum

Dust was a thick blanket, obscuring all traces of the life he had once spent here. The frayed nylon carpet was laden in grey. He could not recall what colour it had been. The flowers in the vase on the table were once-dead, now reanimated by the bulbous ooze of a white-sporous mold. He stood in the open doorway; the piece of timber that had once hidden this room had rotted away from its hinges. He had promised himself he wouldn’t return here. Yet, with enough time and nowhere else to go, his feet had led him back.

With his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, he stepped into the remnants of the room. He spent a moment staring at each angle of its interior, trying to reconcile its reality with what he had thought were memories of this place, though he realised may have been dreams. His recollections were shards in a kaleidoscope: shining fragments of colour twisted into misremembered shapes of his past. There was a time when he had thought himself fortunate to have been granted the gift he had. He could no longer recall when that was.

The corner couch’s desiccated fabric tore from its upholstery as he sat. A plume of dust puffed into the air, illuminated by the light of the dying sun streaming through the loungeroom window. He glanced over the collection of trinkets decorating the shelving unit beside him. There was a photograph, contained within a deformed frame of some unnatural material. The faded $2.50 clearance tag remained stuck upon its back. He pulled the sleeve of his sweater over his palm to clear the glass of its grime, and held it into the light to get a better view. It was old. An eternity had passed since its capture. Its ink had bled and cracked in places, blurring the fine edges of its contents. Yet, from within, what he hoped was a memory sparked.