The stairs bent slightly under his weight as he came down them. His black shoes were shining with polish, His suit was crisp and fresh.

Harold held onto the banister, not out of fear but habit, and his hand flashed white.

He had always been a pale boy, with his eyes looking almost black against his white skin. . The black mop on his head hiding a vague and melancholy mind.

Harold made his way down the small, spiralling staircase at a mild pace. The room beyond was large and comfortable. Like most rooms in the house it had been furnished by his mother, the peacock.

She had old fashioned taste. No cheap, patterned wallpaper in her house. Instead, there were oak panelled hallways and old oriental rugs. 'When one has wealth, one should show it,' was what the peacock, his mother, would say. Harold wouldn't argue.

In this room, there were some heavy leather armchairs next to a large ornamental fireplace. No fires were ever lit, 'but it gives such an ambience to the room,' his mother would trill.

A small desk and some chairs to the left of this. Harold started to walk towards the desk. He kept his arms straight by his side, walking stiffly and slowly. He stared blankly around him. His eyes looked up to the rafters, where he had left beloved rope.

He reached the desk, and took a card from out of the top drawer. He picked up one of the pens scattered on the top and wrote his name on it. Harold.

It was never a name he had liked. His mother had chosen it. He couldn't even claimed it belonged to his heritage, his father or his grandparents. Just another whim of the peacock's.

He pinned the card to his jacket. He wanted her to remember the name she had given him. His eyes went up to the rafters again, and his beloved hanging there. Soon they would be together.

He walked the last few steps to one of the chairs. Carefully standing on the wooden seat, he reached up for his rope, his love. The rafter it hung from was strong and sturdy. It would easily hold his thin, pale body.

His mother, the peacock, had marvelled at his long thin body. "Girls will be all over him!" she boasted, casually. But they weren't, and he wouldn't want them to be. He already had a mistress, one that he worshipped and sacrificed himself for.

Slowly, and with great ceremony, he slipped the noose over his head. He pulled it down past his eyes, and married the rope with his neck. Taking a deep breath, he stepped off the chair and waited.

The rush came to his head. He flew over the world, staring down at it with vacant eyes. All manner of thoughts raced around his mind. His mother laughing at a party. Showing off her latest feathered gown. His father, leaving. And his mother again, crying.

This last thought that came was always the same. Watching his mother cry. Watching her lose her plumes, for one moment showing her human self. And liking it, liking her reaction every time he died.

His beloveds' hold was strong and the wind was soon gone from his lungs.


His mother, the peacock, came in not long after. She glanced at him, rolled her eyes and walked over to the telephone on the desk.

Harold's mouth was hanging open, with saliva beginning to leak out. His eyes gazed blankly over the room.

The peacock calmly dialled a number into the machine. Outside, the sky was grey. The sun was high behind the clouds. There was a slight breeze. She turned and looked at him, with a bored expression.

"I suppose you think that's very funny, Harold," she said, her hand over the receiver. She heard a click as the other side picked up. The peacock put on her act.

"Hello, Fay? Be a dear and cancel my appointment with Renee this afternoon," the peacock talked in her lardy-dardy manner. Harold began convulsing, his mouth twitching, making more saliva drool out. His mother ignored him.

"I know he'll be furious," she continued casually. "But I've had such a fright today, and with guests coming this evening." Harold's body started jerking. Slow, coarse groans came from the back of his throat. The peacock didn't look up, didn't bat an eye.

"Tell him I promise to be in on Tuesday. Thank you Fay, you're a darling. Bye. Bye."

She put down the phone and started walking out of the room. As an after thought, she stopped and turned to Harold's body.

"Dinner at eight, Harold," she said. "And do try and be a little more vivacious." With that, she walked away with her head held high. Her footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Harold closed his mouth. He lifted his head and stared blankly after his mother.


This was done for my Lit class as an assignment. Essentially, what we had to do was study and analyse the short stories of D.H. Lawrence and come up with a creative essay based on said short stories. Since I was away for some of preparation, I pretty much pulled this out of my arse.

But it doesn't seem to bad to me. It makes a bit more sense if you know some of the devices and imagery Lawrence uses, or the film Harold and Maude, but I think it works. I got an A+ for it, so it can't be terrible.

Anyway, to whoever reads this, enjoy! (Oh, and some of the stuff that happens in the opening isn't included here because I couldn't remember them during the writing of this essay. Sorry.)