A Window's Silhouette
written by.. e.s. dallaire
1
Four square feet of light, surrounded by dark; and, born within the light, much of what is mysterious in man can be seen shifting through the billowing, wispy curtain. The house is made of dark brick, almost black, as if perhaps of volcanic stone. A lone tree in the yard towers above the single story dwelling, casting shade and thus further darkness over it, and the tree is seemingly unwavering in this peculiar quality no matter what time of day one happens to lay eyes upon the hovel. The only house for miles, it was, and so it appeared to have been for centuries, at least; the miles lapsed when one left the city behind to find pointless roads that stretched out into unblemished horizons, tempered by no obstructions, just straight, straight, straight through vibrant green fields. And they were nice, these fields—as was the warm prairie wind gently swept across them—but they were not sown, and thus practically useless, if one really were so bold to say. That is to say, to a person accustomed to crowded urban life, these fields felt almost as if they shouldn't exist anymore: almost as if one were dreaming, gliding down one of these long, pointless roads, and even as they dreamt, sceptical minds knew these lands were long gone, and nearly forgotten.
A lot about a person can be said by their home. The walls—whether plastered drywall or brick or wood finishing—speak of many things, as does the furniture, the smells, and the art work—or lack of art work. Even the ineffable 'use' of the space, sometimes alluded to as 'feng shui', alludes to much. When Chalayne leaves behind the city in favour of this boundless landscape, for example, she leaves behind a dwelling conscientiously chic—and leaves it behind as fast as her bike can carry her, some days. It was a dwelling her parents chose without consulting her or her brother, and even when she summoned the courage to offer her opinion on the matter without their prompting, they turned only one patronizing and obviously inattentive ear toward her, and only for about five minutes. Regardless of Chalayne's ingenuous but poorly delivered input (it was nervous indignation that caused her to stumble over her words), her parents had opted for long, straight lines, sharp right angles, and large panes of glass, and they had found the object of their wishes contrived as a blueprint shown to them by an architect who was pleased to welcome their family into the latest, hottest, most newly assembled community in the city. It was a community even farther out from the city centre than their old house, which had already been in a bore of a neighbourhood: emptied by day, and in the evenings when people returned from work they rarely left their houses except to run errands, or walk a dog, or take part in the weekly softball game. This new community in which Chalayne now lived with her parents, her younger brother, and their own family dog, was much the same: it had the same grocery store, and the same hardware store; the same restaurants, and the same coffee shop.
Chalayne worked at the coffee shop. She had worked at the one in her old neighbourhood too, transferring when they moved thanks to her parents' design: the general manager, when Chalayne asked her this favour, had said that she would okay the switch despite a staff shortage because Chalayne was 'a perfect combination of mature team player and punctual, hard worker', and that this was a rare combination to find in students her age. Indeed, it was her parents speaking through her careful upbringing when Chalayne replied that it was just a simple matter of showing up for her shift on time, and that she didn't understand why so many other people were hired and fired so quickly.
Compared to the little black bungalow stolidly planted next to a little creek—which drew in Chalayne's intrigue like the bubbling waters were corroborating her suspicions—and way out of the city and thus way out of anything of the ordinary, her house was devoid of personality right down to the fridge magnets her mother had amassed over the years. And this was why Chalayne, since chancing upon this house three weeks ago at the beginning of summer break, kept returning: she wanted to see who lived inside. So far no luck, though she stared at the entrancing abode often from a thicket of brush amongst the long, soft green grass, hidden from the window set just beyond the trunk of the massive tree; the window on which she turned hyper-focused eyes. Her imagination was precocious and fanciful, and she was quite prepared to see, maybe, a witch poking her nose through the window frame, warts and all, one day soon. She imagined the witch would have sallow, green-tinged skin, greasy black hair the colour of her house, and a pointed hat atop her head. So many afternoons she had come back to catch a glimpse of the strange house's undoubtedly strange occupants, but she had yet to see movement beyond the curtain fluttering in the wind.
Chalayne had resolved to dispense of the mystery before summer's end, which was why, determined, she had lied to her parents about sleeping over at her friend Alyssa's house this Friday night, and instead brought a tent and much snack food with her on her bike, along with Alyssa too (who had in turn lied to her parents about sleeping over at Chalayne's). They were both going to keep vigil over the house all day, and all night, to find out once and for all who lived such an intriguing life within those volcano walls.
“I still don't get why we're doing this.” Alyssa said from beside Chalayne, not even looking at the house but instead skyward, watching the ample clouds drift overhead with a bored look on her face. “My butt hurts from sitting so long.”
“Don't grumble! We're doing this. . . well, just like I told you earlier: to confirm that there can be some difference—some personality—within the landscape of our existence. We're doing this so that we can see what that looks like—or who that looks like, I should say.”
“Difference from what?” Alyssa asked.
“Difference from our families, from our friends and our school, from our lives.” Chalayne said. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that Alyssa did not look convinced. She sighed and said, “Just. . . different.”
“How many times have you come out here?”
“Couple afternoons a week for three weeks… as often as I can.”
“And you haven't seen anyone come in or out?” Alyssa asked. Chalayne shook her head, her eyes back on the house glimpsed through verdant branches. “Then maybe nobody lives there after all. It looks abandoned to me.”
“Someone lives there.” Chalayne assured her.
“Who do you think would? It's in the middle of no where! It looks like a dungeon.”
“It looks,” Chalayne said with defiance, “like it has character. It looks like a person; and that's how a home should look.”
“Like who, then?”
Chalayne bit her tongue so she didn't blurt out her expectation, so minutely cultivated over the weeks gone by, to find a witch. She shrugged and muttered another of her guesses, “I don't know… It could be anyone! Maybe a scientist of some sort.”
“A mad scientist.” Alyssa corrected.
“Those are the most interesting ones. The ones they make movies about.”
“Ooh, maybe it's an actor gone into hiding from paparazzi! Maybe it's Shia Labeouf!”
Chalayne laughed.
“Or maybe the house is the entrance to an underground fortress. . . that we're standing on top of right now! ”
Chalayne giggled some more and said, “Yea, maybe. One person it isn't though, is anyone we know, or anyone someone we know knows.”