Thin Lips

I had always liked smoking. The slender cigarette burning slowly as you watch the glowing red tip working closer to your face as if it were eating its way to your mouth. The smoke however, was my favorite part, how you'd let the grey mist seep out from thin lips, looking like the fog that spills over onto an open field during a rainy day. To be honest I wouldn't actually say I enjoyed smoking entirely, the only aspect that drew me in was the silkiness of the smoke, how it lofted through the air in front of me then dissipated as if it had never even been there.

Sometimes I would lie down on the dark floral couch we had in my father's old study and I'd think random thoughts. All these different ideas were so confusing yet so fascinating, each thought bounced around in my head like a small child throwing a ball at the ground repeatedly until it became too much. This was usually the point at which I'd get an intense migraine and would have to call for the butler, Lussius, whom my family had employed when I was only around the age of ten, to fetch a kettle and make me hot tea with a squeeze of lemon and hint of peppermint. To calm myself down, while I sipped my tea, I would take out my gold plated lighter, which had been given to me by Lussius on my 17th birthday, and I'd flip the top off and listen to the sound it made, the grind of the metal wheel striking against the flint, igniting the wick and feeding sparks into the air as my finger fumbled off the piece. There was something that was soothing about it, the constant click that reverberated off the walls covered in a mural of dull pink pastel roses and an assortment of other flowers.

Although I had never really questioned what my life would hold here at my parent's estate I always felt a sense of shame and resentment that I would never amount to anything that they would have been proud of. It was as if there was this small but oh so influential voice off in the distance that nagged at me, whispering nothing but lies and meaningless jabber about how worthless I really was.

The trees outside of the gigantic estate hung themselves in the strangest of ways and I often felt compelled to go wander through them hoping that maybe I would get lost inside the maze of strangled and intertwining branches. It had to be one of the most peaceful places I had ever had the pleasure of being in. The fog that accumulated above the dead grass and weeds added to the mystique of the place. My mother, who absolutely hated every aspect of nature, loved to walk the hidden paths of the forest that led to an open, raging sea. It was stunning and yet lacking a certain something. Nothing about it made it feel as though it were a fully complete scene. You could never put your finger on it either. It was something so obvious, but when one tried to speak of what it is that was missing they never could fully explain.

If there is one thing that I couldn't stand, it was when Lussius played his violin during darkest hours. I'd wake up at the peak of night when everything was silent and as I walked the halls I could hear the faint whimpers of his violin as he ran the bow across the tightly wound brass strings. Its "music" created nightmares that haunted my subconscious and I tried so hard to ignore the whispers of it yet I felt so compelled to run towards it. The only thing I did like was the piano. Mum had hired an old man from the city who was renowned for his ability to play the piano, easily placing his fingers on the white and black tiles in such a way that it would send people into a trance, leaving them with a void that could only be filled with his talent. He taught me for a few months and after awhile he felt that I was good enough to continue on my own. Since then I'd practiced everyday with the intention of maybe becoming a famous musician who would play in the suavest of clubs. Everyone would know my name and I'd have to disguise myself so I wouldn't be harassed while in public. It always sounded so delightful to me in my head but I never really quite knew how to get out of this house. It was a prison and I, its prisoner. I was locked in here for the rest of my life. Although I could have just strutted out the large front doors, passed through the open gates that bore the family crest and wandered into the world unknown to me.

My life up until that point had consisted of a rather boring and dull routine, but it had kept me in place and out of trouble. First, I would wake up and put on my white shirt with the collar and slide into my black trousers, the ones that Lussius always insisted I wore a pair of suspenders with, then I'd walk along the long corridor running my fingers through my hair and staring at the paintings of previous family members that had lived and died in this house. There was always one in particular that I was always forced to stop and stare at. "Aunt Beatrice The Brave" was engraved in the gold plaque that stood at the bottom of the frame. No one I had asked ever knew exactly why she was considered brave, so I guessed it was because she was a widow perhaps or maybe she had been in a war somewhere. Either way, the painting struck me in a way that I couldn't describe. The eyes were so ice blue and she looked so refined, although she had a slight smirk on her face, one that came off as mischievous. Turning away from the wall where the painting stood I began my trek towards the grand staircase where my father and mother had often walked down when they hosted their extremely lavish parties. At the bottom of the stairs on both sides of the railings there were carvings of monstrous ravens, with wings spread into the open air, that always seemed to me that they were keeping watch over the house. Childish thoughts that I had never really let go of, I guess.

I often found myself viewing things as if I were still a child; it didn't bother me because I knew that observing things as an adult was so dull and with a child's view everything had a hint of mystery behind it. It was so much simpler back then when I would wake up on Sunday mornings and find my father and mother in the lounge, my father smoking one of his extravagant cigars he had gotten in the city while he laid back in his brown chair gazing at the paper. My mother would be opposite him, sitting next to the fireplace running her fingers over the multitude of books my father kept all while sipping small gulps of her hot tea. Oh, her hot tea. It always smelled of mint. I would then wander into their room of comfort and let myself slide down into the window seat, staring out the window, coating the glass with my breath that slowly slipped out of thin lips like smoke into the air.