Prompt: It began in mystery, and it will end in mystery, but what a savage and beautiful country lies in between. (12/21/08)

My response is not really related to the prompt, not like the rest are. It's not as good as yesterdays, I did not enjoy writing it as much. I did get more words though.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~
(December 21, 2008)
Prompt: It began in mystery, and it will end in mystery, but what a savage and beautiful country lies in between.
Time: 15 min.
Words: 834

The books were too heavy for me, and my arms burned with the energy I used simply to hold them, but my pride forbade me to release them. I took large, leaping steps with every intention to reach my destination within the shortest amount of time. My steps were too large for carefulness, and I misstep landing on a fallen book. The leg was torn out from under me, yet somehow I managed to grasp my balance and hold it, balancing on one leg only, until I regained use of the errant leg. Shaking my head, I swung my sweaty hair out of my face. It was hot up here, as hot air always rose, in this attic study. I made no complainants, for who was to hear me? Could I complain to the very person that I kept the study a secret from?

I reached my destination at least, my arms trembling before giving out, and not a moment too soon. The books crashed upon my desk, spreading out in a messy pile. The crash was not a silent one, loud and obnoxious as most crashes tend to be, and for a second my breath caught in my throat, and I cast a worried glance at the door, as if expecting Uncle to tear it open any second. But Uncle was gone, and I was all alone, for the moment at least. Taking a deep breath, I turned my back to my desk, surveying my messy attic.

It was not pretty, not by any standards. What little space there was, was covered in something, be it books, paper, clothes, perhaps a cot to sleep on-there was not empty space, and not a glimpse of the wooden floor was to be seen. Absently, I made my way to the only window there was, my feet automatically falling a tricky path, the only safe passage from one wall to another. On instinct, without my thoughts, my feet passed over things that would trip them up, choosing a path that allowed me to reach the window safe. Leaning my elbows on the dusty, paint splattered table, I pressed my face close to the window, peering out. The window was spotless, one of the few things in the room that could boast that. I had taken special care in it, as it was precious, allowing my a glimpse of the beauty of the outdoors.

I didn’t know much about the wilderness outside the house. What I did know of it was locked away in dusty, decaying memories that were discolored with time. If Uncle knew of this window…

If Uncle knew of this study, I reminded myself, forcing my thoughts into a more pleasant realm. Dancing away from the window, I lightly jumped, my arms flowing out in what I assumed to be artistic and light hearted. In reality, I had only read of dancing, and had never seen any type of ballet. Even so, I was sure that I rivaled the best as I twisted and twirled, my feet deftly landing softly, never tripping up over anything. I reached my destination, the left wall, and absently ran my finger over the books that were housed in the shelf. There was dust on a few-evidence of a hobby that I had discarded-but most was fresh, and looked as good as new.

At least I hoped. The ones I were done with would make the dangerous journey from my study to Uncle’s library. Uncle was rarely in the library, a rare blessing for me. The blessing allowed me to journey to and from his library with just a little less danger than every other trip. Even so, the journey to the library was not without danger. If I was caught…

Stop that, I told myself, moving away from the shelf to flop down on the pile of blankets I had amassed and laid on top of the cot I had nicked from maids. The maids like me, or they took pity on me, and often risked facing Uncle’s wrath by smuggling things to me, such as the cot, and the blankets.

I lay on top the blankets, my eyes open, but my mind not seeing the ceiling. Instead, I was running through a meadow, with the honey colored grass, and the wind that blows so softly against my hair. I was feeling the golden blessing of the sun, and dancing and twirling about, as deft as a nature spirit.

Suddenly, I jumped up, anger replacing the joy I had. Why were all my dreams built form books, rather then memories? Why did I have to imagine what walking through a meadow would be like? Why was I forced inside? Why….

My anger was crumbling against the well of despair that always appeared when I was angry at my Uncle. Why couldn’t I see the sky? Why couldn’t I know the pleasures of laying out in the sun for hours? Why couldn’t I see what I’ve always read about?