lullaby

he wasn't supposed to be like this.

Roses.
She'd always-packed dried roses into the dusty stairways and mirror frames and the large Victorian dressers they had by the dozen. The smell had kept them fresh, the petals pushed gently into a corner, their flesh thin and brown, the lines where the faint veins had been pulsing with dust. They left their impacts on the clothes, the long black sleeves and Cheshire cat markings around the edges, the hard feeling of a thing put away too long.
The room was dark. He hadn't thought to light it; he sought things out better in the dark, without the hard light touching the details of the curves, the color hurting one's eyes and blinding enough without the sorrow they caused. But as it was, the windows showed the luminance like an entrance to a portal; they were long and scattered, sending fragments of dust in billows to the floor when one touched them, the marks of a fingerprint dusted upon the eaves, where save his identity he belonged. So the light billowed, as it always did, at dawn, and sent rosy squares of red blood light down unto the crack between floor and wall, plaster neatly buried under the blood.
One bank of light fell upon a dark shadow, standing out from the rest of the curtained figures that stood still, fallen and black against deep sheets, black instead of white, crimson instead of blue. He came upon it, creeping through the dark, as he always had done, flashing of memories packing forward into his conscious, footsteps of different people tiptoeing through the room and echoing distantly. Voices and multitudes of screams entered chaos, and he silenced them with a wave, his eyes closed and his hand at his temple, his eyes black and foreboding.
With a moment of hesitation he whipped the curtain of black off of it, staring with a passion at the Victorian grand piano that's cream keys were stained with the light from the blood sun.
"...That's right, see how it gleams? ...Had it cleaned with a flourish, the silly old man... He'll be the death of you yet, you'll see. He killed me long ago..."
Beethoven fluttered through the eaves, now awakening the various creatures that awoke and fled, clinging to the softwood that adorned the long pillars that extended to the ceiling. The soft feel of a lean hand on a shoulder, an accompanying violin, the faint patter of laughter and glasses clinking, the clapping outlining light images of noblemen in long suits and purebred princesses in red sparking dresses that trailed across the floor. The lawyers of The Firm placing their hands upon volume upon volume of ancient text written from centuries before, the twirling phonographs at their sides scratching solemnly with the hiss of a record. The light that poured in from the lights in the hall, the maids curtseying to their lady and their host, with their young children wards quietly extending toys and joy.
He blinked, and it was gone.