The room of demise

Dominic arrived in winter like an angel amid hellfire. He was a case of the offspring born into impetuous conflict, the one delivered in the middle of a chaos. For all the miracles that stood before him, Dominic had been the one to inspire hope, his countenance so ethereal it almost distracted the villagers from present turmoil. He had turquoise bright pupils that dilated upon his mother’s gaze, like an ocean of endless waves, rosy cheeks that nested just between his lips, a smile timid and puerile en face every commoner that stood before him, and little strands of hair as white as snow nesting on his head, like snowflakes in a blizzard. Dominic inspired a sense of divinity, a premonition of a truce. More so, he represented a hopeful fallacy of town that carried unknown certitudes and sweet falsities.

During the first quarantine, Dominic had learned to crawl. In a span of three years worth, he stood tall and proud, his feet bare against the earth that only existed in the shelter of his dwelling. The years went by and his world bloomed between four walls, his early years of age allowing him only to sense the fear of peril, not to understand it. After Dominic’s first birthday, the calling of the force took place. Marie was stripped of her identity as a wife, the absence of Sébastien shrinking the green and white tiled kitchen that they so loved to dine in, and suddenly, Marie was not eating at the kitchen table anymore. Instead, she chose to eat in solitude in the living room of sorrow, her figure tucked into the sofa like a little child, her mind and heart travelling to a warzone far, far away. Dominic was aware of her sorrow, as much as he was aware that he was a child of war. Albeit Dominic’s early years and lack of perception, the nullity of a father had always been Dominic’s most palpable sensitivity.

Year after year, what Dominic called a home remained as such. From corner to corner, the house unfolded into countless worlds before him, each one revealing a different story. There was the kitchen with its colorful tiles and its mahogany table, now empty with tins and cans of rationed nourishment, followed by the patio, its pasture having been left untouched, its weeds growing from the lack of male nurturing. There was the living room and the bedrooms, all carefully cared for, duvets, blankets and pillows all tucked and paused as if they will resume to their usual activities once the war seizes. The rooms all shared the same quiet ire of silence, a grievous statement of resentment coming from a doleful wife. There was only one room that stood different from the rest of them, a room that neither Marie nor Dominic dared to explore. No matter how often Dominic tried, Marie stood her ground, her eyes stretched wide in protest, her face stained with the strain of shouting, ‘This section is off-limits”. Dominic surrendered to his mother’s wishes, his conquests limited to the room of sorrow and the bedroom he resided in. Then one night, as Marie closed her eyes and tucked herself to sleep, Dominic chose to visit it.

The loft was a vastness of demise. When Dominic barged in that day, a wave of hesitance possessed him, the words of his beloved mother echoing alarmingly in the back of his head. His naivety was deeply rooted in curiosity, the kind that brings one closer to the fruit that is forbidden. One by one, he walked up the stairs and into the room of restriction. One specific section caught his eye, a corner filled with life and loss that stood in front of him in flesh and bone. He let his hand off the torch, expanded it to reach each and every item. Photographs, clothes and books spread into the empty space, some smelling of cigar, others covered with granules of dust, the kind that stay and hold forgotten recollections. Dominic explored them one by one, feeling their warmth and sniffing their scent as though to awaken memories, but his attempts went to waste. He looked over one particular box filled with photographs, dozens of them laying on the bottom and secured with a thin, brown string. Dominic decided to explore them, uncovering the photographs in gradual inquisitiveness. The first photograph depicted a charming man in armour, his smile hidden behind a brown haired mustache and two glowing pupils. Dominic smiled back at him, a guileless reaction that seemed out of his control. He felt a fondness so strong it made his heart beat faster, his feelings of inquisitiveness growing stronger against his own demise. He tried to push the feeling away, continued his probe with two speculative eyes that only searched for answers. The photographs all revealed the same man, his image mostly appearing in unison with Marie, and other times alone. He had the biggest smile in every single one, albeit the armour that rested on his tiresome body. The photos revealed a passage of time unfamiliar to Dominic, perhaps from a time that preceded his birth. And then he saw it. On the very bottom of the pile, one singular photograph attached to a letter released Dominic from his anguish, giving away the answers that he so desperately longed for. Much to his surprise, Dominic knew the man, he met him long ago during the times of peace. In the photograph stood the man and Marie, while Dominic remained rested in this man’s arms. He lingered on the photograph until the moon departed from the ceiling, until there was nothing left in the room except himself and a faded memory. Then with tears of reassured forbearing, he closed the door behind him, leaving under the impression that he would never open it again.

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The first ray of sun revealed itself on the evening of 1955. It had been a decade since the suspension of hostilities, and the city was buzzing with life again. All was alive and well, as were Dominic and Marie. The house had finally found some colour, the green and white tiles now replaced with red and beige, the living room painted with teal undertones resembling the eyes of Dominic, and the kitchen carried a mixture of rose, cinnamon and orange fragrances that weaved gracefully through the room. The loft was quiet and lifeless, and as Marie had repeatedly instructed, the room still remained ‘off limits’. Marie had never learned about the night he broke the rules, and Dominic thought that it shall persist as such. In current time, he sympathized with his mother’s pleads, for what he discovered over the years is that she protected him from potential agony. It was not as much that the room held restrictions on a child his age, nor that it concealed secrets and lies in its corners. It was not the health risks emanating from the dusty windows on the ceiling, nor the dangers of tripping upon different kinds of trinkets and fragments. It was the fact that despite a whole town’s love and devotion for Dominic, as well as his mother’s attempts to split herself in two respective parents, the void that persisted in Dominic’s life lay out in the open in that very room.

Today, the door of the loft was opened again. As opposed to his former adventures, Dominic barged in with bravery, his confidence residing in the fact that this was not his first encounter. As he had reasonably foreseen, the place remained as it was. Old boxes scattered here and there, spiderwebs integrated into different corners of the room, windows revealing the life that could have been. Dominic familiarised himself with the place as he did ten years ago, his memory gradually regaining consciousness for which corner to look out for. He observed and paused, until he found it again. Then in daring fashion, and being finally able to understand scribbles and words, he unfolded the letter that he couldn’t understand ten years ago.

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November 1940, Belgium

Dear son,

By the time you’re reading this, you will presumably be of mature age. The events I am about to disclose to you require that, and if such is not the case, I suggest you seize reading this letter.

My dear Dominic, forgive me, for my utter absence in your life cannot be justified by battles and hardship or measured by the amount of cadaverous infantry I have bore to witness. Yet please believe that had it been my choosing, I would not be writing this very memoir, but be next to you, alive in flesh and blood.

There is considerable gore on the battlefield. I see it every day, and all the bloodshed I have witnessed made friendships seem impossible. Albeit I am still standing, my shelter is limited to the shrunken gulch where I restlessly languish. The mud has taken its place on my jackboots like the frozen stalactites that have no intention of leaving, and the rain has drenched us all, almost as though it will cleanse us of our sorrow. I may be here, but my thoughts belong to you and your mother, as do my heart and soul.

I do not know what you perceive of me son. I will only stand corrected when I reconcile with you again. Now that your maturation has taken place, I will feel as though I am meeting you for the first time, and feed myself forgeries that the young man you have become fits right into my palms. I will again captivate myself into your turquoise eyes of comfort, and kiss my Marie for the little star we have created. My only wish is that you have a fondness of me, an unknown familiarity for a long-forgotten father, nonetheless I am quite sensible that there is a notion of perplexity in longing for souls you never met.

For my own safety, I shall stop my writing once and for all. I shall return to you and Marie, should my luck allow me so. Upon my deepest desires, I will.

Goodbye for now my little star.

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