Two-Story Living Room

Sister Downstairs sits on the ledge at the Upstairs window, the briny air prickling her nose. Somewhere outside the wind chimes chant in greeting.

Once there were two sisters in the Two-Story living room.

There was the Sister Upstairs—

                the carer of plants

                           and old creatures,

                                              her heart full of kindness.

There was the Sister Downstairs

     the adventurer,

    her spirit

                                    a gliding dragonfly.

White tiled steps connected the bottom floor to its upstairs twin.

 Representing the middle_________an adorned slab set the landing apart.

The wall in the two-story living room was mostly bare,

until one day a painting was installed on the landing.

The acrylic on canvas was conceived

in dark shades of brown, grey and ochre.

A perfect portrait of a crying boy

who looked about five. In its dark hues

it was hard to distinguish garment from background.

Still, no observer failed to notice

the overlarge scarf encircling his neck.

Outside the two-story living room, the world

        fell

                    off

          a

     cliff

                        and merged with an endless ocean.

Years ago, when the room above

was only a nursery, Sister Downstairs

hadn’t materialised yet,

so upstairs was everything.

As Sister Upstairs grew isolated and alone,

a portrait was chosen to keep her company.

She hoped for a fairy land

with a white castle and a waterfall

surrounded by a green glade

where butterflies gathered.

Instead, she got the Crying Boy.

Shivers run through her spine with the memory.

When the Crying Boy

was set upon the wall, Sister Upstairs

heard a loud thud. She curled

under her bed covers, sweating profusely

yet refusing to move. Her jaws

were sore from clenching,

her fingers hurt from holding

the covers tightly around herself,

wishing for invisibility.

In the dead silence of the night,

Sister Upstairs heard the unmistakeable

sound of a weeping child.

Her throat closed tight

And her chest hurt as she heaved in panic.

So hot was it under her covers,

the upstairs living room could have been on fire.

The nights that followed were pure torment,

inflicted by the endless weeping of the boy.

Sister Upstairs knew it was not a figment

of her lonely mind. The boy whimpered

on moonlight nights –­­                                    keeeep me

Sluggish and morose.

He shrieked as if in pain –                              care for me

on moonless nights.                           

Afraid his endless supplications would drive her mad,

she vowed to never leave her upstairs room.

It wasn’t difficult to comply. And in fear

of ever invoking his wrath, Upstairs Sister

promised to care for him, if only by never leaving.

Consequently, her being had only to have

an inkling,  

a figment of a wish,

a whisper of hope,

or something, anything

that could make her heart flutter,

for his supplications to resume.

The vow was of no consequence,

until one yellowed-skied morning

when the chiming bell announced an arrival.

Having never truly descended, Sister Upstairs

was unsure what to do next. Curious,

she peered in silence. Her gaze travelled

the steps      pausing           for a brief interlude at the landing.

Her eyes rushed further down to a now

inhabited living room.

Her heart punched her chest.

‘Hello sister, I am finally here,’

came the enthusiastic greeting of Sister Downstairs.

‘Sister. What a joy!’

I am no longer alone, she thought,

regretting it immediately; fearing retaliation

from the Crying Boy who looked on

with his dilated, frozen eyes.

She averted hers, feeling the agony

in the pit of her stomach.

‘Sister, come meet me,

we must go and collect bromelias,

their honeyed water—a gift—awaiting our degustation.’

Upstairs Sister had her feet frozen solid.

Not once, had she ever

    ventured

                    past

            the

     fifth

step.  

                                                            And there she remained.

To Downstairs Sister, the landing

was the horizon in a distance

she could only reach with her eyes.

To Upstairs Sister, the landing

was a gigantic platform.

She dreamed of descending it someday.

But her sentiment hadn’t always been so.

For most of her life there was no desire

to descend the slick stairs.

Ashamed of her cowardice,

Sister Upstairs had no choice,

except to confess the truth.

‘Oh, how I long to be held by you.

         You, who I have been waiting for all

         these years, beloved sister.’

‘Come… my embrace awaits.’

‘No, it’s not possible. You see,

          there is a curse.’

‘A curse?’ Downstairs Sister said,

puzzled and intrigued,

as she loved a good dark tale.

‘Do tell sister, where this curse comes from;

         together, we might be able to lift it.’

‘Oh, my sister, who I loved prior to existence;

         it’s no use, the curse is on the wall.’

‘You are stronger than your fears. Come, I’ll be waiting.’

‘I can’t–’

‘Tell me then but be brief,

         I long to hold your hands… and sunshine.’

Downstairs Sister looked out the door

as she settled on the fifth step going up.

‘Well, if I must?... There are many legends

surrounding the painting of the Crying Boy.

It is said the artist was broken and had done a deal

with a devil. If the conjured daemon

conceded endless creativity to the painter,

he would forfeit his unfortunate soul.

Soon after the deed was done, said artist

had a bounty of creativity his body

could hardly contain. But,

instead of trading his soul as first offered,

the clever artist is believed to have

found an orphanage in war-ravaged Spain

where twenty-seven little orphaned kids cried

endlessly for parents who would never return.

After the artist’s paintings were completed,

the orphanage burned down, and no

orphaned child was ever found.’

Sister Upstairs believed it with all her being,

Believed it so intensely, it might be true –

the simple idea of venturing downstairs

would break her promise,

the curse would take hold of her life

‘What a horrendous tale.’

Sister Downstairs looked outside

to the birds chirping in the sun.

After a moment she asked,

‘Are you… debilitated by your fear?’

Nothing but silence followed that question.

‘I am here sister, together we can overcome anything.’

‘There is so much in me to give. Yet,

it is as if all ends up at the wall.

The upstairs living room is my refuge,

all I have ever known. I can’t risk leaving it,

what if I can never return?’

Her voice trembled as tears ran down her face.

Sister Downstairs was silent,

pondering the tale. If the story was to be believed,

there had to be a sacrifice.

There had to be a cost, a life most likely.

‘Tell me sister? Help me understand?’

Sister Upstairs sniffed but didn’t say anything,

only looked on at the painting, her eyes narrowing.

The sacrifice was to forfeit

yourself to a new self,

a sacrifice involving death

­—and rebirth.

Sister Upstairs wasn’t sure

in what form, shape or purpose.

In the worst-case scenario,

To abandon her place, was to fill

    the two-story living room

 with fear—her fear  

would transfuse into

    the walls

and empty spaces

     into dark corners

and obscured chambers

  underneath its base

          seeping

  slowly weakening

             its

        structure.

      In time, the two-story living room

would sway to the howling winds

 and whisper songs of despair,

following her trail.

She might become free,

she might even learn how to live,

to see the world, she never thought much about,

except for her sister’s musings.

Her sacrifice would be self-fulfilling.

The Crying Boy would wail without an end,

his despair would escalate without

her soothing presence. The soul

of the two-story living room,

a ghost at large, would traverse

the oceans, searching for familiarity.

The two-story living room, a universe

standing in a galaxy, compressed

into worlds and stars would

        collapse.

If Sister Upstairs abandoned her domain,

the two-story living room would become nothing

but a decaying composition

       stone–matter–dust

Crumbling with her absence. The air,

a compressed mixture

of rotting substances and ash,

slowly disintegrating.

All because she was selfish.

They sighing merged in the landing

Sister Downstairs longed to hold her sibling,

with the same intensity her body

felt the pull of the world beyond the cliff.

She grunted in frustration.

To Sister Downstairs it was a matter of steps.

Did she even believe in the sacrifice in the first place?

As nights mingled with days

and days transmuted into nights,

Downstairs Sister realised the waiting hurt.

‘Maybe you could go explore and bring me treasures!’

The suggestion tumbled down the stairs.

‘Where?’ Sister Downstairs asked from her wicker chair.

‘Over the ocean. I hear it whispering your name.

Whispering unwritten songs only you can sing.’

‘I can’t leave you here. Your burden is already too heavy.’

‘I will rest in the knowledge of your existence.

Grand enough for both of us.’

‘The journey might be longer than years can count.’

‘Don’t hesitate. Go now. Go and bring me treasures.’

In the twilight, crepuscular critters sing in anticipation of night. Exhaling, Sister Downstairs looks out the window towards the endless ocean. With Sister Upstairs gone who is to say there was ever a sacrifice?

Once there were two sisters in the Two-Story living room.