It’s still sat there waiting. It’s in no rush, unlike its keeper who sits there pretending, pretending he has a reason to keep on waiting by its side. His fingers drum restlessly against the side of the table, his head not focused on anything but what is yet to happen, what may never happen. Its silence is deafening to him, its lack of animation moving him violently.
It seems like days have passed. This bitter, cold cave around him offering no solitude from the harsh winds that blow his way. The clock ticks slowly on, every second thundering past his ears in gleeful disdain for his ever pounding mind.
Outside is bright. There are children playing and birds singing, the sun all the time shining down on their happy faces as they skip blissfully through their carefree lives.
Inside is grey. In the background a tap drips placidly into the browning water beneath it, dishes laying discarded by its side with the remains of an earlier part of this daily blur still smeared across them.
It’s still sat there, waiting.
He doesn’t know how he’s got here, how it all came about. He told himself he wouldn’t let it happen, not again, not after last time. But here he is. He’s forgotten the other times, he always does. He’s put them to the back of his mind, the back of his heart, refusing to accept he let himself fall in to the same, predictable trap.
As the door slams shut, he can’t deny he’s fallen into it again.
He will try to convince himself. He meant to be here all along, he’ll say. This was all part of the plan, the grand plan that will take him to the future he’d always dreamed of. He’d accounted for this. In the bigger picture this was just one small brush stroke, creating a beautiful canvas of colour and life.
He’ll stitch himself into that canvas. He’ll rip open its soul and climb inside if he has to, anything to get a grip on it, anything not to be left behind.
It’s still sat there.
His hand flicks monotonously over buttons and switches, not taking note of what they lead to or what they have to offer. It’s just something to stop him reaching out and grabbing it, once again forcing it to reveal its secrets only to discover it has no secrets for him to reveal. It is empty to him. So full of possibilities, yet none of them are why he is here. None of them entice him in.
The promises he was told and the contracts he signed all mean nothing anymore. Endless opportunities fall flatly at his feet as he ignores their advances in favour of holding out for something he’ll soon realise was a lie. He’ll soon realise he knew it was a lie all along, but for now he waits.
He waits while it stays sat there, waiting for him to realise.
It had all began one night not long ago, whilst he lay there restlessly imagining what might be. It had seemed like a good idea to head into the maze he’d so often lost himself in before, and without hesitation, without trepidation he wandered naively in. The signs all led him to the entrance.
This time, he decided, would be the right time. This time he’d find the centre.
All the thorns and branches that scratched his face should have warned him off. All the blood that dripped down his shirt collar and onto the sodden ground that pulled in his feet should have given him all the clues he needed. But the end was too tempting. If he could make it there it would be worth it, it would make his decision seem right.
If he could make it there nothing else would matter. Wounds would heal, blood recirculate. Memories could be wiped out, couldn’t they?
He got close. He could see the light pushing back the vines surrounding it and seeping into the corner of his eyes, making him glance around in excited panic at the prospect of it finally working out.
For a time he pretended he was happy. For a time he pretended the rest was no longer important. What had happened was in the past, what was going to happen was all he cared about.
He sat there, surrounded by his own web of denial. It mocked him, it told him he was a fool for ever thinking of the possibilities as anything more than merely potential.
His back grew stiff. His hair fell limply down over his eyes as his hopes escaped him.
All his hopes bar one.
The one that told him this could all be fixed.
The one that said if he waited then it would come to him, the answer he’d been waiting for all this time.
If he waited it would be worth it.
It’s still there.
He’s still there looking at it.
She’s somewhere else; unaware she’s all he waits for.
Unaware she still pulls the strings.