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Button House was a relic of its own time with rich history ensnaring the building, trapping an essence within the mould of wooden walls and floors. Rotten smell clinched to Havers’ lungs as his chest expanded with each breath as he stood in the silent kitchen -feeling himself unfamiliar at home. Rarely did he ever feel like belonging. Lingering long at a place left him vital; and what an eerie feeling vitality was for him. Witnessing ardent life start to pass through him as he stagnated at places with flourishing bodies was oddsome. Not a state he liked to persist at.
Placing the kettle on the stovetop, Havers turned on the gas, listening to the few clicks as he strengthened the output before reaching for the box of matches laying on the counter.
But Button House was void of vitality; memories was what gave it life. They hung to dead wood and chipping stone, so cold under his touch.
Flicking the match against the box -it lit up in his fingers with a hiss, giving the room a moment of small light. Smiling at it, Havers held the flare under the kettle, allowing the gas to lick at its’ heart to astart its own. Inflamed, the blue tendrils curled itself against the metal, animated to give off its own essence over. Snuffing the flame in his hand, Havers placed box and match again on the counter.
There where whispers in his periphery as if they were following him; as always unintelligible to him. But here, within this old house, they were uncommonly frequent. Some so startling close with an illusion of words. And the smell; the smell that tended to encircle the floors! Cracking wood of fire and blacked smoke rising to cavort with his senses that he could hear the murr of flesh tearing, parting as it was burned and moved by jerking fright.
Shivering at the thought again, Havers took out two simple white cups out of the cabinet and placed them on the table. Licking his chapped, torn lips Havers swallowed the amassing saliva within his mouth, prodding with the tongue against his teeth as he picked up the pot with pre-brewed tea grounds and poured the filtered black liquid -just short a quarter- in each cup.
But sometimes the whispers of voices were a mere scream; in the early mornings where the land still slept in the darkness of night and the clock down the hall chimed its time into the emptiness. A woman could shortly be heard from outside. Just once and nothing more. He had heard more captivating terror in the years but still it was a delight to wake up to.
Turning off the stove just before the kettle could whistle and alert the sleeping soldiers, he watched as the blue gas-flame jovial dance ended as its force was quenched and picked up a towel and wrapped it around the handle before taking up the kettle to carefully pour the bubbling water from within into the waiting black liquid.
Such a joy that the Captain was a like-minded individual and favoured a simple black tea, devoid of any milk.
The Captain, as Havers had come to find out with thrill, was not far removed from him. Vitality seemed to flow from him with steady stream; never returning. Not with slipping time as the body turned to a corps with age; but with certain death. The Captain was bidding his time and was non the wiser, unaware like a fly to a honey-trap.
Giddy again at the thought of such a pristine man rotting in his core, Havers picked up the cups and crept up the stairs. On many ways, the Captain was like an apple to Havers. He beheld him as he slowly rotted under his never straying gaze, the green-red peel shrivelling with dotting mould forcing itself over its surface. The shining skin turning soft and brown, effortlessly squashed with one hand; fingers digging into the pulp, rotten juice spilling out with putrid penetrating smell awakening the keener senses.
Biting his tongue at such acute thought flitting through his mind, Havers nudged the ajar door open with his foot. “Tea is here.” He said airily into the light-dimmed office, that he had left a few minutes prior, but still the Captain had already lost himself over the papers of their project, that they always pooled over at the silent of night.
“Ah, delightful.” The Captain answered after a small startle, that had his eyes flicker up with scare from where he had been hunched over a text. “I wouldn't know what to do without you, lieutenant.”
Giving him an appreciating smile as he handed over the tea to him, Havers took his seat again across the desk, placing his own cup next to the open book he had been reading.
Silence etched itself between them, the usual culprit of their time spend together.
Silence hadn't bothered Havers in a long while, a companion within his own body under the stilled machinations of the body. But to the Captain it always seemed a bother, where he would start to glance around restless with a pinch to his brows, searching for words to say.
Perhaps the whispers would have been more of use to him than to Havers; sometimes those were a jolly, riddled chaos of companionship.
Perhaps they would also have had helped with the utter loneliness the Captain tended to emit.
Sighing soundless, Havers scrutinized the Captain under the soft light, burning his own tongue whenever a sipped the tea, not willing to pick up his reading again just yet. The Captain had averted his eyes after realizing that Havers wouldn't say anything to fill the empty silence but also had nothing to say himself and resorted to get back to the papers. But he tensed up, his shoulders riding up slightly, eyes flickering to Havers; aware of being regarded but staying silent on it.
Not unused to it as reoccurring the stare tended to be. And Havers was aware how…idolatrous his stare could be, knowing also how nervous the Captain could turn under it; having used it to his own gain often enough -and it always filled him with delight. Seeing as the Captain would swallow with force, getting unsure of himself, hands held behind his back as he jutted out his chin. The soft skin around his neck would be pulled taunt, the puls visible to keen eyes to witness its fluttering. It was alluring to see vitality at work before certain absence. To see the life’s forces; so alien to Havers for such a long time now. They were oddly beckoning him forward to place his own hand over it, to feel its passing, a fleeting moment for him to behold again. Just there, in reach. And he would witness the void taking ahold over the Captain; turning him just the same as Havers.
Perhaps one day he would have the honour to witness the Captain’s passing, seeing the pristine cut soldier crumble as strings were cut and the death rattle passed over his lips.
He thinks, before turning back to his book for research, the whispers of his periphery would be joyous at having a new companion.