Stories

I’m waiting to catch the sun; for the fire it brings to take my years of aching suffering. Closing my eyes, I snuggle further into the soft blankets that line my chair, I sigh. Only the softest pillows, those covered in luscious fabrics, made it onto the large seat. They don’t make them like this anymore; many of the brocades were dyed, embroidered in ways lost to time. I paid handsomely for these items, so I could use them to decorate the place upon which I would eventually pass.

             The chair itself was the last thing I had commissioned. I had another, just like it, when I was still young in years. Despite having moved to countless places, I still think of that place as my ‘old home’. It was the first home I bought myself, decorated to my liking over the years. All of it superbly ornate; silk brocade, heavy velvets with gold embroidery, delicately carved furniture. The chair in my old home was just like this one. Placed deep in covered gardens where I could bask in the moonlight. At that time, I did not yet miss the phantom warmth of the sun. When the fire took my home it was not anything fanciful I missed, it was the chair. How fitting, that it will burn once more.

             The sun is slow to rise. The light in the distance, a mere promise of what is to come. Stretching my mouth open, my jaw clicks. I raise a hand, careful to not cut myself on gnarled talons. Using my knuckles, I rub my jaw trying to relish the feeling. It only slightly alleviates the deep ache, my constant companion. Letting my hand drop I sink further into my seat.