Ye 'Ole Family Window

An...interesting window adorns my boyfriend’s house.  He bought the house when his parents passed on to the summerland.  So, all his siblings got money; he got the house.  You know, one of those deals.

Originally, the house belonged to his great-great-grandparents.  It’s been passed down through the line.  Always one of the male children takes it over from the parents.

Except for one time.  The name Lilly comes up in whispers.  But if I ask, or they notice me listening, they shut up.  I assume from what I’ve caught that that generation had no male heir.

I can’t get any more of the story than that.  Any time I bring it up with one of Oscar’s family members, they walk away from me.  Straight away.  Done.  End of conversation.  I’d think people with such an interesting family history would be talking people’s ears off about every last detail.

Hell, my grandpa loved telling any family stories he could to anyone who made the mistake of stopping and listening to him.  Strangers and friends alike.  Sometimes we’d save the poor chap by interrupting; Sometimes we’d just leave them to suffer through the stories just so we wouldn’t have to hear them again.  Grandpa drones on and on about our ancestors.

Ain’t happening like that in Oscar’s family.  Strange.

Anyway, this window is...weird.  It has multi-colored panes.   They appear to have some sort of a pattern or picture to them, but I’ve never quite figured it out.  The glass is warped and melted and twisted.  

One day, early on in our relationship, they especially caught my eye.

“Oscar, these swirls are different from the last time I came over,” I assert.

He doesn’t respond.

“Oscar!”

“What?”

“I said the patterns have changed from when I was hear Wednesday,” I repeat.  “They’re different.”

“No, they’re the same,” he quips flatly.

“But this one had a square shaped design and it’s gone!” I counter.

“It’s an optical illusion,” he mutters, fidgeting.  “Just the way it’s made.”

“How on Earth do they make it so it does that?” I question.

“I don’t know.  They just do,” he snaps angrily and tramps away.

I should have let well enough be, I guess.

Somehow, despite all of the disfiguration, each piece fits into its part of the lead frame.  The frame is solid.  Not bent or warped at all.  How on Earth does that happen?  The original shiny silver shows through most of it.  However...some of the frame is charred.  As if the frame had been in a fire and is now covered in soot.  

I tried rubbing it off once, when Oscar was in the shower.  It didn’t come off.  It felt rubbery.  Not greasy like you would expect from an object blackened by smoke.

“So, did that window go through a fire?”  I asked Oscar one day while having dinner.

He got up from the table, took his dishes to the kitchen, and cleaned up the mess from making dinner.  I sat with my fork halfway to my mouth and stared after him.

I have a key to the house.  Oscar gets out of work much later than I.  On the days I’m sleeping over, I let myself in and hang out until he gets home.  Today I’m earlier than usual.  They were overstaffed at work, and I won the draw.  

I put my stuff away in Oscar’s room for the night, get showered, and change into more comfortable clothes.  I take an afgan from the closet.  It’s a really pretty zig-zag with a purple color theme.  Grabbing my favorite pillow and book, I snuggle onto the couch for a good read and nap.

Then I notice it.  A frame in that window that I’ve never seen before.  It’s flat.  Flat!  Tossing my book aside, I rush up to inspect it.

The purple hexagon is clear and bright.  Shiny lead surrounds it, as if it had just been made.

All of the other panes give the illusion of rolling and roiling, like the sea on a tulmultis day.  If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they are screaming.

Faces come and go in the clouded swirls on the other warped panels.  Faces?  Their mouths are shaped in howls.

I back away now.  I’m either hallucinating, or dreaming.  How was it I used to tell if I was dreaming?  Oh, yeah.  Can I fly?  I jump.  I land.  No flying.  I’m not dreaming.

Stepping back, I stumble against the coffee table.  My bottom smacks against it and it cracks.  I tumble to the ground.  But I don’t land.

Some force has me gripped tightly, like a burrito.  I struggle, but can’t break free.  The room turns red, then blue, and then a glassy, wavy purple.

I’m staring through a warped lavender film at the living room.  From the wall.  The wall?  I step forward, but all that happens is my leg pushes against the pretty stained glass.  My leg leaves a shape in the pane.  

Tears well up, but turn into mist as they fall.  Mist.  White mist.  Forming a dainty tear shape, it twirls in front of me.  After floating around my head for a bit, the abomination fades away.  More tear shaped mist fills the space I now occupy.  

A room?  Sort of.  I have space to move.  Front, but not back.  Side to side.  The silver walls of lead are cold.  They bend if I push on them.  Some pressure pushes them back.  

I’m in the window.  I know this, but it can’t be.  My brain has broken, hasn’t it?  Oscar will be home soon.  He’ll take me to the hospital.  He’ll help me.

Something bends the lead wall on my right closer to me.  Something, or someone?  

I hear the back door.  Thank the heavens.  It’s Oscar.

“Oscar!” I cry out.  “Oscar!”  The sound echoes and booms.

“He can’t hear you,” remarks a soft, tiny voice.  They never hear their victims.

Victims?

“Oscar!!” I shout with all I have.

The blow to my ears leaves me cringing.

Oscar is staring at me.  No, not at me, at the window.  He looks resigned.  Picking up his cell phone, he plops to the couch.

He dials and listens for a hello.

“It’s done,” he whispers, “She’s gone.”

He listens as the voice on the other end speaks.

“I know.  I know it’s the way it has to be, it's just...well, I really liked her, ya know?”