This was ssssooooo not Narnia. Aslan was a false prophet.
There were mothballs. Yes, of course there were! Heaps of them.
Plus so many dried out insect husks that it would beggar belief, should anyone ever look in here. Dead Beetle Jenga? House-fly Ker-Plunk?
End of the hall, head right, small door, under the stairs, turn the handle, peer into the dusty darkness.
Cluttered artefacts. Half-forgotten, not quite needed stuff, strewn about. Boxes upon boxes, files and folders. Superseded tech. The cupboard was a halfway house. Instruments and appliances, accoutrements and the not needed now.
This was not the future she had seen.
Slung on a bent-out-of-shape wire hanger where her collar was not up and not down, Jacket waited patiently. She was of winter season. It was almost cold enough. A few more weeks.
Probably.
Jacket was lonely, of that she could be certain. There’s only so many times you can look at a dusty family photo frame, cracked on one side. And though she’d counted the webs Spider had made, she’d given up at a somewhere near 500.
But, truth be told, Jacket’s pockets were a treasure trove of which even Chester Cobblepot would be proud.
The side gate key. Inside left.
A crumpled 20Eur note. Front right.
Two AA batteries, still good to go....for 5 mins - after a wiggle and a switch - and the coup de grace, inside right....a voucher written in calligraphy. Officially official. A 3-course meal, dinner for two. Slap up grub at a fancy, whupdidoo restaurant. A place with three sets of forks. You know...uppity AND expensive.
This last detail was the kicker. See, that voucher was shoved in the pocket last March. It was a Friday, she remembered wine was spilled down her front. Spoiling her crisp appearance. She was ‘must-have’, had been emblazoned on covers of magazines.
It was cold that night, breath turns to mist cold. The evening had been a good one. Smiles, flirting, the promise of more.
The morning after was a sombre, sobering affair - much as the future would prove to be, despite the air of a possibility.
There were tears before breakfast time and Jacket was slung, stained and unwashed into the recess of the cupboard. Where she now hung. Hopeful and hesitant.
What’s that, the sound of floorboards creaking...
A pool of light swam at the crack of where the floor meets door, boy met girl.
The world stood still.
The voucher carried yesterday’s date.
