Creation

A Story by dklp88

A person returns home from work

I opened the door to my house. The first room was a small room, no more than two paces across. If I was to approach it from the other direction, however, it was a good 6 paces across. I stepped through it, my shoes squeaking against the recently polished floor. I didn’t bother to announce my presence, for there was no reason to; I lived alone. The room just inside the doorway had stark white concrete walls, with a mahogany door to the left, which led into the dining room. To my right there was a cheap plastic desk where I kept letters that I had to deal with. I had no intentions to do so at the moment, however. The floor was a garish bright pink patterned tile; an unfortunate remnant of when I purchased the house. I had always planned to do something about it, but I never got around to it. It even partly seemed as if a waste of time.

I strode over to the mahogany door, each step clattering against tile. Opening it, the hinges squealed, and I shuddered at it. I didn’t have anything to oil the hinges within the house at the time. I made a mental note to go out and buy it later. Leaving the door open, as to not listen to the infernal racket again, I entered the dining room. It was at least three times larger than the previous room, and though the abhorrent tiled pattern still continued, the walls and ceiling darkened to an off-colour beige. Again, not a colour that I would have chosen, it was far more tolerable than the tiled floor. At the center of the ceiling was a single light fixture, which beamed down upon the dining table unnecessarily harshly. I had that one installed after removing the tacky chandelier that preceded it. It was one of my true alterations to the character of the house.

At the back of the room, along the wall, laid a refrigerator. Purely utilitarian, it had no aesthetic qualities at all. It was always only filled with enough food to last four days. Every fifth day was a grocery day. I handled them myself. I handled everything in this house by myself. It was far easier than trying to find someone or something to help around me out. And then I’d have to pay a salary, which I could afford; it would do me, however, no help in the long run. So I continued to act as a care taker of my house.

To my right, there was a drawing table, where I put shape to houses that the land forms. There were one or two office building plans also there, but houses were my true love. I knew that if I were to design a house on the plot of land where this abomination that I live in exists, it would look completely different. Be more modern, but less Modern. An important distinction between style and substance. This desk was made of a thick oak, a wonderful building material. I placed my fedora, as crisp and clean as the day that I bought it, on the center of the desk. I took off my jacket, faintly striped like my waistcoat and pants, and placed it on the back of the chair that was pushed underneath the drawing desk. A pace beyond the desk was a bookshelf. Another oak construction. I decided long ago that I would one day tear up that bookshelf and use the oak to help reinforce the rafters of my house. On the bookshelf, there were an assortment of books, all positioned around the centerpiece book, ‘The Fountainhead’. It was the only book worth reading on the shelf, the rest were there for appearances.

But I continued to walk across the room, about ten paces, to the next door, which lead into the Master Bedroom. This door was also mahogany, identical to the door which led into the dining room. Idly curious how identical the doors were, I opened it. But there was no noise of unoiled hinges. I was relieved. Stepping through the door, I surveyed the room. It was Spartan, with only three pieces of furniture in it: a bed, a night table and a wardrobe. Each of the three was made of maple, and was stained to make the wood appear darker. The wardrobe and night table had nothing on them, while the bed had a mattress covered in sheets. The sheets of the bed were a dark blue, matching the sky blue of the wall.

I walk into the center of the room. The door is still open, because there was no need to close any doors, I started to carefully peel off my clothes one at a time. I removed my bowtie and waistcoat, hanging them up in a row in my wardrobe. The inside of my wardrobe was bare, with only four thin wire hangers on the inside, on which I placed my clothes, leaving two left over. I had no other clothes, because I had no need for any other clothes. But I left on my pants and shirt. Civilization demanded that I leave my pants and shirt on. And I was still civilized. I next removed my shoes and socks. I then placed them on the bottom of the wardrobe.

I wandered over to my bed and laid down on it. It was too early to eat, and I had no plot of land to start building from yet. So I stared at my ceiling. It shared the same sky blue of the walls, and looking upon it, I could convince myself that I was staring at a cloudless day. I stretched my arms out, causing my chest to rise somewhat. This was a daily ritual. But after sitting there for a few moments, I pulled my arms back in, and sat up. I was already relaxed, so it did nothing for me. Getting off the bed, I wandered back to the dining room, and reached to the table. On top of it was a small packet of cigarettes and a lighter, which I promptly used. Smoking was not allowed when I was working, by my own personal rules. But now that I had no work to do, I partook in the activity. I keep on hearing news that it could kill me, but I didn’t place any faith in that. Even if my life was shortened, if my works stood the test of time, and endured, I would have achieved immortality. My designs made me useful as a person.

Having satisfied my craving, I drew back the chair at the desk, scratching the tile, and sat down heavily. Thumbing through the sketches, I picked up the bottommost one, and reached for my sketching pencil. It was slowly becoming a nub, and I made a mental note to pick a new one up soon. And I stared at the sketch. It refused to bend to me, as the other ones had. The plot of land had decided not to guide me, and I was left trying to find my way through a haze of unknowing. I stared at the plans I had for my house, the one that would replace this house, and I had no breakthroughs.

So I started to draw.