The Watcher

The foyer resembled an antique shop. Old Mrs. Prig gingerly secured the paisley covers embedded on the couch, polished every relic to be spick and span, made sure to put all the antiques on the cupboard to keep out of any visitor’s reach, effaced the dust particles that may have possibly hid, and most importantly, draped the newly-purchased pompadour curtains over the window to hinder a glimpse of light to pierce through as she believes that light contributes to more dust, which her neighbors did not seem to understand.

Today was the first death anniversary of her husband, Mr. Prig, who was believed to have died when he unexpectedly fell from the huge mount of land on which he was standing on, to view the village until he lost balance and violently tumbled toward the creek to which he inevitably drowned. When the widowed Mrs. Prig heard the news, she was not able to breathe properly that they had to rush her to the hospital. The poor woman did not bear to see the corpse of her husband, whom she spent most of her life with, and whom she depended on to the point that he was the only one to have caused her joviality but also great affliction.

She remembered every second of the burial.

From each forceful step dragged towards the coffin of her one and only love, every bead of sweat trickled from her body. The aftermath of all these filled her head. “What am I going to do without him?”, “Who am I going to protect now? No, who’s going to protect me?”. It now hit her that she would not be able to depend on anybody, and that she was all alone. As she finally reached the coffin to which she hoped would be the last of her torment, she was not vulnerable to tears. Her eyes drowsily stared at her husband’s face, with coalesced emotions of fear, anger, love, pity, and sorrow. Her face was blank for she knew that shedding tears would not bring her husband back and that was what she despised. She did not wish for him to be gone, she never wished for him to undergo a frightful death, but she knew that things had to happen and that she should begin getting used to them.

If there was one thing that successfully helped her to cope with despondency, it was her love for antiques. When she was a little girl, she was exposed to ceramic and glass figures that held emblems of a certain emotion. For example, when she visited her aunt by the countryside, she came across an antique that resembled an angel. Her aunt argued that the angel contained the power as the “Watcher of the House” and how it served as the guardian of their family for over the years. There was a reason that her aunt purchased the angel. It was because every time that she gently held the angel, she felt the warmth that even the sun could not supply. Aside from this, she was taught to never let anyone touch the antique for it was precious to be kept and displayed, rather than touched or even played with. They merely are for decoration purposes only. From thereon, she was devoted to collecting antiques, whether that be sculptures or furniture because she believed that every object had a guardian within.

Mrs. Prig caressed the couch and muttered, “Dear can you hear me?” She began to wail as she kept on tapping her chest to calm herself.

“It’s been one year since I last saw you again in the flesh.” As she sat down, she gazed at her antiques and gained composure to talk to him, as if he were there in front of her.

“I remember how you used to dance with me, and even though the fireplace provided only a limited amount of light, you still sought me as someone you always wanted to see.” With every tear that trickled on her cheek, the wind enveloped them and wiped them away.

“You were the only one who was real enough to stay with me…But only if you had not gotten out, you would not have died. Tragic.”

The sorrow in her voice vanished. She started laughing manically.

“If you only saw their faces during the burial. How hilarious.” She stood up from the couch and hastened to face the cupboard of antiques.

There were a variety of antique statuettes. From angels with harps, to bunnies gathered around an Easter basket; they all occupied the hickory hardwood cupboard. Hidden behind all the statuettes she passionately possessed was a statuette that seemed realistic. It was a man hugged by a woman from behind. The color of the man was not of flesh but rather, it was a mulberry color as if she was strangling him rather than hugging.

She brought the statuette closer to her eyes, “Tsk. If only you had not tried to escape, you would not have ended up as my antique.”

“You weren’t allowed to leave.” Her eyes met his, the spark has faded.

“I told you that you could love me if you promised never to touch anything and to never leave this house.” She sputtered and turned red from the fume she had been feeling, seeing him scared.

“Why are you treating me like this? You’re treating me as if I’m not human..as if you..”

She lit the fireplace and put the statuette down, as she danced, her shadow surrounded the foyer and the sun was starting to set. While she danced, she hummed along and was smiling.

She slowly walked toward Mr. Prig who was seated on the newly covered satin couch.

“You are mine only. You are never to see the light. You see those antiques there?” She gestured toward the antiques neatly placed on the cupboard.

“Oh dear I never meant for this to be too soon. I was going to wait till you die of some different reason. But I guess now will just have to do.” She proceeded near the drawer of the lampstand beside the couch Mr. Prig was seated on. She pulled the drawer until there was some type of metal glinting due to the casted moonlight from the window.

“Laires, what are you doing?” Mr. Prig’s face turned pale and cold as stone.

“Do not worry my love, this will be quick.”

Birds flew away from the tree that they nestled on near the Prigs' house. Mr. Prig was nowhere to be heard and seen from ever again.

Mrs. Prig sat at the same couch Mr. Prig rested on before his moments of death.

“At least I have a watcher now.”

Reviews

[Wathanya.5KY3]

Oh gosh, why do I lack imagination this badly? It's sad that I don't get the ending of this story.
If he's dead (and killed again), why does Mrs. Prig have a watcher?

Technical stuff: "Mr. Prig was no where to be heard and seen from ever again."
I think you meant "...nowhere..."

[Thalassa]

Hello there, the lines in bold were the dialogue between Mrs. and Mr. Prig before she killed him. As she believes that antiques are watchers, she was obsessed with the idea of having one that she killed her husband because he didn't follow her rules instead of her waiting for him to die of other reasons. So she created an antique out of his corpse and treated him as a watcher that she wanted when she was younger. He's her watcher.

Yes I wasn't able to overlook that part, thank you for the review.

[Wathanya.5KY3]

I see. I wasn't expecting horror at all!

[Vin]

This has a captivating quality- both with sheer imagination and emotional connect.
Hope you inspire all of us again soon.

LOVE

[Thalassa]

Thank you very much for your review Vin! I believe that the best way to connect to the audience is through captivating emotions that are hard to explain. Sending love to you as well!

[emmajoy]

' .. Her aunt argued that the angel contained the power as the “Watcher of the House” and how it served as the guardian of their family for over the years. There was a reason that her aunt purchased the angel. It was because every time that she gently held the angel, she felt the warmth that even the sun could not supply. Aside from this, she was taught to never let anyone touch the antique for.. .. '

Oh my.. had no idea your imagination would take you into such a place! From start to finish you wove such a neat and compact scenario.. antiques your love, death the influence on your emotions. To show another facet of your mind bound in your character's was and is quite extraordinary. Not saying more about the events, would disclose too much. In spite of English not being your first language you've written more than finely, far better than many who should know how! Kudos for both imaginative goings-on and a piece of writing that should be read by many, savoured and more.

[Thalassa]

I always look forward to your reviews, Emma. Thank you very much for appreciating my work. This piece is very close to my heart as it represents a part of me that is conflicted between separating things from what they actually are.