It was raining.
The marble fireplace did little to warm the house that Chill had already claimed for its own. The Tudor-styled walls rose high and daunting around the living room sparsely strewn with furniture, setting it in perpetual gloom. Dying embers danced their final routines amongst burnt-out logs as the shadows cast about the room grew ever longer. Facing the fireplace was a mahogany armchair and in it, a face half hidden in the shadows.
His hands, clutched at the padded armrests, had skin that was drawn back and wrinkled. Draped with a thick woollen blanket and wearing an unerring visage he closely resembled a gargoyle of medieval times. The tomb-like silence permeated the mansion, broken only by the periodic rumble of phlegm as he fought to draw breath. Wisps of silver strand hair remained on his spotted scalp, serving as memorabilia of his former youth. In one of his hands he held a goblet of wine, with the crystal decanter containing more on a small wooden table adjacent to the armchair. His eyes were glazed over, a familiar sight of those looking into the past, their mind's eye darting round years of memories, yet locking the physical ones in place.
Ever so slowly, his vice-like grip, a facade obviously for someone so ancient, loosened. The goblet slipped from his hand, falling slowly towards the polished floorboards. Globules of deep, red wine fell from the mouth, catching the light of the dying embers in a scintillating array of coloured spheres. The muffled clang as metal hit wood resounded throughout the desolate house, pulling him asunder from his reverie, a repose which he had far too much time in these days. He strained from his reclined position to look for the perpetrator of his privacy, nerves pulled taut against his neck as he swivelled around with blood-shot eyes. The sudden move sent blood rushing to his head, light-headed and nauseous; he dropped back into his seat gasping, eyes half-shut as his left arm went into spasm from the exertion.
It was a pitiful sight.
He let loose a low raspy growl, for it was then that he realised he had dropped the wine goblet. Reasoning with himself, he decided to clean up the mess later, right then he readjusted the woollen blanket, which had came loose, and reclined once again in the armchair. The muffled patter of raindrops made him come to that conclusion all the quicker. He would clean up the mess later, for now all he wanted, was to drop back into the abyss of sleep, recollecting fragments of his past.
Pitter patter.
