Terrarium

It stared into the instruments floating like wind chimes. It was lying face-up on a medical examination table deep in the cellars. It noted, like so many times before, the rust dulling what dangled above. What fluids had hardened into this sickly burnt orange? Blood and iron. Saliva and silver. Corrosion in action. It would keep tabs on the progress within an infinite memory. 

Or it would forget. And that would be just the same.

Nothing so banal really mattered anymore. This was about feeling, not science. It flung its legs over the side of the table, still looking up. It raised a gaunt arm up, swished its fingers through the mobile of formerly sharp utensils. It didn’t have much of an effect on the tangible realm. There was just enough resistance between the fingers and the blades to cause the faintest stir. From afar, it wouldn’t disturb a human eye. It looked around the desolate room. Another table. Fat lamps that would stink for an eternity. Specimen jars. Cages. It was a fascinating story down here but frankly, it was tired of the dark now. So it started to hum. It was the polite thing to do. It hadn’t sung in what could have been days or years or minutes. It started low. A deep bass licked the walls, shaking the beetles in their shells. They soaked in the vibrations. The centipedes weren’t as fond. It threw in some light clicks. A few turns around the room, and it started up the steep stone stairs. 

Ascending. 

As the light drooled in, steadily gaining volume and dominion over the stairwell, it observed the moss as it bred communities into the corners and crux of individual steps. Swarming wet micro-beings made illegitimate patterns around the curls of greenery. These were fascinating moments. It changed its tune. Something more upbeat for the relentless spirit of moss. The mites and the nematodes spun to the illusion of trumpets. Each population moved slightly differently from the one below. It watched closely during the slow rise. Slower than yeasted bread. Slower than air. Slower than time, with its mortal obstinance, knew how. It could watch the wet leave water if it had wanted. But it much preferred to taste vicariously, to empathetically suffer the dreams of vermin. 

It reached the kitchen, languidly strolling into a beam of light and dust. The mist baptized it, freckles falling through its contours. This was the best part of the mansion. Vines stretched towards the new presence by the oxidized countertop. It leaned its melody towards something slow and romantic. Some melancholy in respect for the room that used to cook. The mice emerged with twitching tails, letting their eyes well in the sound. Mold inhaled, filling its porous cells, while holding hands with the mushrooms who exhaled. The source of sound twisted around the overgrown room. The high ceiling salivated while moss dulled the sharp edges of broken windows. The cockroaches made loving formations in happy response to the music until toppling over, giddy, with laughter on their backs. The flies did aerial turns around the lethargic butterflies as the onlooking moths reflected in utter stillness. Toads piled themselves into an ancient stove. Dragonflies sucked sugar crystals from a cast iron above. Grass grew between the toes of tiles, greeting everything in their path. 

It was without influence. It could hardly touch anything with viscera or weight. But sight. Sound. Smells. Unlike touch, they’d never left. So it made noises for the leftovers here, the life it tenderly beheld. For the bats inhabiting the upper bedrooms, the rats and frogs exercising power over the main floor’s domain, the lizards licking the floorboards—they were unabashed in their movements. In their perception and stench and survival. This monumental terrarium remained unperturbed by outside forces. It was remains incarnate, history without language. Free from intervention, the castle took to life with gilded trepidation. Life and death suckled at its benevolent breast. It would break down eventually, become something less corporeal, but it was in no rush. The entirety of the mansion’s existence sat firmly as a shelter—sometimes chosen, sometimes forced. It was comfortable in its longevity. It could nurse the microcosmic community as long as they wanted to stay.  

A bird sat on a crumbled windowsill. It did not sing. It simply listened, ambivalently watching as the rat king appeared from its cupboard. The wildflowers bathing in the sun sent their regards. The source of music now hung from the dilapidated chandelier. Spiders caressed what would have once been fingers. It yearned for the tickle of cobwebs. The frogs emerged, heads aimed at their heavens. Quiet shaved its fur coat, suspending silence in lieu of the moment’s serenity. Harmonies lulled out of the long-dead voicebox, shepherded by Evolution’s tactical hearing aids. A croak here, a croak there added intrigue. A rustling wind supplied drama while the winged bugs swayed around mounds of flora. The tones changed as the sun fell down. The simple phrases moved easily through the previous, molded into new melodies by a lackadaisical sculptor. 

Slowing.

The amphibians snored as the mammals' whiskers twitched and moonlight sprayed its spores into the house. The bats said their morning prayers in screeches before heading down for breakfast. They followed the vibrations as much as their own to the kitchen. It would keep humming until it had nothing left to say. This was its only act of communion left. Formal language left it long ago. What was the use of a word in the face of inexhaustible sound? It began a lullaby. This would be its magnum opus. It had some integral window sitting to do in the upper levels. It swung its legs lightly before detaching from the ceiling fixture and drifting down, notes of the lullaby falling at its pace. It ran its fingers through the nest of rattails. It wished to comb out the knots. 

And suddenly, through the fading vibrations, it heard a crunching sound as the front door was pushed open.