DOMU, Steven

Steve closed his eyes just for a moment.

Last days, weeks, and months were marked by constant pain permeating each of his muscle and every molecule of his weakened body. Disease took away and devoured every inch of his physicality and left nothing in return, not even a bleak shadow of rising basketball star. At first it was a stealthy enemy, leaving no visible traces, moved silently, almost imperceptibly, but over the time Steve could not ignore the growing almost never ending fatigue , shortness of breath, which grabbed him by the throat almost immediately after the start of any activity. The medical diagnosis was just a sordid confirmation of a sentence he silently feared for days.

Steve closed his eyes for a moment and sighed.

The last six months he spent in the hospital. Connected to strange machines. At first, their ticking, tapping and quiet relentless noise disturbed and irritated him, but over time he got used to them. It does not mean he liked them. On this hospital bed, which he inhabited for God knows how long, there was no trace of the young man who once has been the soul of every party or the captain of successful university basketball team.

But today, today was a different story.

After a long battle with the disease, he was finally allowed to leave the hospital and go home.

It seemed to him that he dreamed of this moment for centuries. He was envisaging what he would do, letting his imagination run free but the first thing he has done was going to his cold but comfy bed.

Steve closed his eyes for a moment, sighed deeply.

The suffering that has accompanied his every breath for the last months has mysteriously vanished. He let the air go with a gentle smile on his thin faded lips. 

Steve closed his eyes.

After a short while he woke up and looked around the room, scanning his old wooden wardrobe he has taken with him moving out of his parents’ house, glassy cabinet with his trophies and a standing lamp he bought on the car boot sale ages ago simply because he wanted to catch the attention of young female seller, whose figure, although hidden in old worn out clothes, was amazing. He smiled and turned towards the source of strange noise. It was coming from the window. First thing he noticed was darkness. It looked like behind the glass was a deep nothingness. It took him a moment to recognize the thick branches of massive trees fighting ferociously against oppressive gusts of powerful wind. They groaned struggling to survive furious blasts like an exhausted boxer scrapping remains of his willpower to survive another battering from his opponent. Steve looked the other way and then put his head on the pillow again.

'Nothing hurts,' his mouths moved in silent bafflement, but it took him more than half of an hour to gather his courage and get out of bed. He straightened his clothes with his hands, just to make sure that there are not too many creases and walked to the door. He did not remember closing them behind when he walked to his room, but he did not spend much time considering this oddity.

He pressed the handle, opened it, and entered a hallway which he had never seen before. He looked back into his room, puzzled. His room was in perfect condition, everything was as it should be. Then he looked on the corridor which most certainly was not part of his apartment. Standing in unfamiliar corridor he wondered which part is more real, his apartment or the strange corridor.

‘What is going on?’ he asked himself, looking quizzically around, trying to make sense of the new situation. He pinched himself to check if he does not dream. It was painful, he was real. He closed the door and looked both ways. There were some doors along the wall, but all of them were different, like somebody intentionally put different doors.

‘Odd,’ he thought, thinking what a strange place is that.  

A faint noise disturbed him.

Someone was doing the dishes and listening to the music. He heard the music but could not recognize the piece. It was barely audible but laud enough that it hooked his interest. Steve looked around to make sure it is safe and cautiously started walking towards the notes that were becoming marginally lauder with every step he took. Narrow and half-darkened corridor, after another four different doors and a set of small steps opened to a vast open space consisting of a big modern kitchen, dining area with a solid wood table and living room with some leather sofas. Steve looked around noticing substantial period fireplace, tall windows crowned with sharp arcs and beautifully decorated solid wooden floor.

In the kitchen a tall, slim man with an elongated face, bushy eyebrows and a clearly outlined jaw wrapped in a two-day beard was moving around. He stopped only for a second, when Steve exited the corridor, but as soon as he saw his new companion he immediately came back to his job. After a long moment of quiet activity stranger said:  

'So, you finally got up.' 

Suddenly Steve felt like he was seven years again and his mum told him off for oversleeping on Monday morning. The man carried on his task without looking up from some plates and mugs that were standing on the granite worktop.

Steve inhaled the ancient atmosphere of this space and walked slowly to the breakfast table and sat in a highchair looking at the man who was just putting two steaming mugs on the worktop.

‘Just as you like it,’ he looked at Steve adding after a short pause, ‘double raspberry tea.’

'Where am I?' asked Steve without acknowledging the tea.

The host looked at the pristine worktop, like he suddenly noticed something out of ordinary that just at this very moment caught his attention and urged him to get rid of some nonexistent particle of dust with his right hand.

Then he looked.

He did not look at the man sitting on a chair less than a meter away, more through Steven at the wall behind him.

Steven waited a while and asked the question again. This time louder, almost in the face of a stranger:

'Where are we?'

'At DOMU,' the eyes suddenly sharpened, focused on Steve.

‘Where?’

‘Department of Memories Utilization,’ said the mouth of the tall man, but his eyes stayed emotionless and unmoved, like two coal black nails protruding Steve’s brain. Steve fidgeted uneasy on his chair feeling scrutinized by this man.

‘What memories?’ He swallowed and asked quitter, like he was afraid of the answer: ‘Whose memories?’

‘Memories of people who come to stay here.’ The low tone of man's voice perfectly matched the thunder of the storm, creating an almost inseparable entity. Steve looked through the three-part tall and narrow gothic window just above the massive stone sink. Old and thick trees were growing no more than five meters from the window and at this very moment were fighting for their lives against the onslaught of the ferocious storm. The sound of the blizzard reminded him of the sound of an endless river of cars speeding along the busy highway.

Listening to the sounds coming from outside he suddenly recognized the last chords of the music that allured him to the kitchen. It hit him now how suited it was for the scene outside. The Doors ‘Riders of the storm’ were fading with the droplets of the rain coming from the speakers.

'It blows quite nicely, doesn’t it?' Stranger's question in low bass tone brought him back to the reality.

'It's a nice storm. As if armies of Mordor were set out to conquer the world,' said Steve still looking mesmerized through the window at the unbridled primitive power of nature. 'Is it always blowing like that?'

'No,' the man looked into the window for a moment and thoughtfully added: 'Only sometimes,' he passed the small mug of raspberry tea closer to Steve, who suddenly felt thirsty, reached out and took a slow sip. The man was right, it was exactly as he liked it.

‘So, what is this Department actually doing?’ He breathed in the smell of raspberry while the taste has been still tingling his senses in his mouths.

'How did you sleep?' was the unexpected change of the subject but Steve did not give up.

‘It is a nice place, here,’ Steve unexpectedly for himself suddenly felt strangely brave. He looked around and carried on talking. ‘Really nice, actually. Department of Memories Utilization? That just sounds strange. You must be joking, huh?’ He took another sip of the amazing tea and with the greatest effort survived host’s long stare.

The man slowly lifted the mug to his thin lips, closed eyes and swallowed some of his tea evidently enjoying the taste and buying some time. A quiet clang accompanied the moment when the mug touched the granite worktop.

At this very moment, if somebody would ask him, Steve would swear that he saw a glint of fire in coal black eyes of the stranger. Before he managed to utter a word, low voice filled the room.

‘When somebody dies…’

‘What?’ Steven spluttered and then exclaimed: ‘What did you say?’

‘When somebody…’ started the man but Steve did not let him finish.

‘Are you saying…’ he swallowed loudly. ‘Are you telling me I am….’ He could not finish the sentence.

‘Yes,’ the man concluded it for him.

Steve has been sitting quietly, breathing heavily for a long time trying to digest the information, unable to say a single word. Mouth opened, lips shaking, sweat appearing on his forehead and eyes frantically trying to find a solid ground on which to build his new… life.

 ‘Why…’ he started and stopped to clear the throat.

‘Yhm,’ the man on the other side of the breakfast table was patiently waiting. ‘Why am I here then?’

‘People who come here need to have their memories cleared,’ was the answer in low bass so unfitting thin posture of the man.

‘But… why?’ almost immediately followed another intriguing question: ‘What is that house?’  

‘This house itself was commissioned about two centuries ago. I love the French gothic architecture; it is most amazing. This was the reason I chose this place. The steeply pitched slated roof, beautiful porch, a corner tower for our living space over there and most magnificent fireplace,’ he smiled to his thoughts. ‘With eight bedrooms with en-suits, plenty of character and lush woodlands around it, it is perfect place for DOMU.’

‘Where are we?’

‘At DOMU, I told you.’

‘But where is that?’ Steve felt desperate to find his way back home, to his previous life. Life before… death.

‘I cannot tell you this. You will need to find it yourself,’ the strange man took final sip of his tea, emptied the rest in the sink and silently walked out of the kitchen, leaving Steve to his thoughts.

The rain was steadily playing a melody on the tall windows as Steve got up and walked towards the hallway leading to the main doors. Without thinking what he was doing, in his jeans and a tailored long-sleeved shirt he walked through wide and substantial wooden doors, passed the entrance porch and stepped onto the barely visible path in the deep grass. He was walking straight for solid fifteen minutes, never diverted from the path and eventually, soaking wet and cold he stopped by the steps leading back to the DOMU.

‘So be it…’ he whispered after a moment and walked up, depressed and hopeless like a man walking onto the gallows. He slowly climbed the stairs, stopped for a moment at the doors cast last look at the rain and closed the doors behind him, as if he wanted to cut all ties behind him.