he/him
So he’s dead
I wanted to post this little thing I wrote that comes at the end of the story, but had nothing too on topic I’ve drawn of Misha or Kolbe to go with it. So imma just put it here and say the art and the writing are two separate thingsThe following contains descriptions of decay and skeletal remains, death, and one mild reference to suicide.
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Kolbe let out a deep breath as he stood on the porch. Misha had disappeared, without a trace it seemed. No one remembered him ever existing, not since Kolbe had left him on the ghost train.
He mustered up his courage, and pushed the door open. It wasn’t locked, and it gave in with little resistance. The house was just as cold as the air outside, and had a musty smell to it. The decoration was, in every sense of the word, antique. Pre-WWI it seemed. The wallpapers were peeling, yet beautifully old. A style that had died out long ago.
Kolbe wandered the rooms, looking for anything that could have been a sign of life.
There was a coat left on the coat hanger by the back door. It looked too big to be Misha’s, and it had holes chewed through by moths. It was old, untouched.
Kolbe continued on, and headed up the stairs. He heard a floorboard creak on the second floor, just before it came into sight as he climbed up the stairs.
“Hello?”
There was silence.
“Misha?”
Still no answer. Kolbe shrugged it off and continued.
Upstairs, the air was still. The moldy smell was stronger, but faint enough to not bother him.
Kolbe looked down the hallway. It turned at one point, he couldn’t see around the corner from where he stood. He ignored it for now, and opened the first door in the hall.
It was an infant’s bedroom, it seemed. Everything was as untouched as the rest of the house.
He crossed the room, and peaked into the crib out of morbid curiosity. He was met with skeletal remains. An infant’s skeletal remains.
“Oh, poor thing,” he murmured. It seemed that no one had realized it was dead in all the years it lay there. He was somewhat glad that it had no flesh left in the bones, the sight of a rotting baby would have been too much.
He moved on to another room. It was a study, empty. Then the next; a bathroom. A skeleton sat in the tub, slumped into it as there were no joints to support it upright. It seemed more like a pile of bones that suggested someone had been sitting there. Kolbe wondered who would die in a bathtub, he wondered if it was suicide.
There came a whisper. “Kolbe.”
Kolbe snapped his head around. There was no one. He sighed, and left the bathroom.
The next room he tried was a master bedroom. It was the last door before the hallway turned. There was a skeleton on the bed, laid upon stained sheets and blankets. The room smelled foul, and Kolbe shut the door quickly after he assessed it.
Down the turn in the hall, there were only two doors.
One was left open to reveal another bathroom. It was empty. The other door, at the very end of the hall, was shut.
Kolbe took a deep breath. He pushed it open, and it groaned on its hinges.
It was a boy’s bedroom. He looked around before the bed in the corner caught his eye.
His heart almost leapt.
There, on the mattress cupped by an iron bed frame, lay Misha.
“Misha!” Kolbe exclaimed. “Where have you been? I was so worried!”
Misha didn’t stir. Kolbe realized then that he wasn’t breathing.
“Misha?”
He blinked, and suddenly Misha’s form had been replaced with another skeleton.
It wore what that Kolbe recognized as Misha’s favorite sweatshirt, though it had holes chewed through it and was soiled with old smudges of what was once rot. Its head was tilted towards him, or rather, it had died that way.
The picture of Misha, dead in his sheets, head tilted weakly, flashed through Kolbe’s head. He held back a sob.
This skeleton was Misha.
Kolbe wasn’t sure what all to think about it. He wanted to squeeze the skeleton’s hand, as if for comfort, as if for something. He brushed his hand over its shoulder, and said, “I’m sorry.”
The bones were firm under his fingertips, ivory magnificence of what once was. It was evident that Misha had been dead for a very long time.
“Hey.”
Kolbe spun around. Misha stood in the doorway, shadowed by the dimness of the hall.
“You’re. . .” Kolbe stammered. His voice cracked as he tried not to cry.
Misha stepped into the room. He was faded, almost transparent. Kolbe saw him now for what he was; a spirit.
“I have to go now,” he murmured in Kolbe’s ear. He kissed his cheek gently, leaving a cold imprint. “I loved the time I spent with you. Thank you.”
A tear trickled down Kolbe’s cheek. He couldn’t speak, if he did it would only yield wails and cries.
Misha slid his drawer open. The clothes inside were all old and coming undone, except for his hat that rested on the top of all the old, folded clothes. It’s preservation was supernatural, out of place, yet he accepted it when Misha held it out to him.
It smelled like pine, and smoke, and Misha.
“I don’t understand,” Kolbe managed to stutter. His breathing hitched and soft hiccups stumbled from his mouth.
Misha looked at him, with love and pity. He said nothing, he simply walked into the hall, and disappeared.May 22, 2021
#writing
#doodle
#oc
Comments
um holy heck this is amazing i got goosebumps because i felt cold as soon as you described the room.
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