✡ Theodore Hartmyre // D6

---

INFORMATION

---

---

BIOGRAPHY

---

"Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for.

You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail."


Mama was dead: to begin with. They said so, with hands on their hips and voices high and lilting - "She's gone, Teddy, not comin' back, not ever!" - I remember that now. Yet I must have missed something, blinked, perhaps; for now she stands before me quite solid and alive. I make a habit of that, says father. Pickin' and choosin' what suits me to remember, always tossin' away the parts of my life I'm not wantin' to have replayed in my mind. I don't see the problem with it myself.

My mama smiles at me, her eyes shinin' bright and clear. "Did you miss me, darling?" For a moment, I'm not sure how to answer. I frown, hearin' Bea's hysterical screamin' and Clara's tears fallin' upon the hearth. The face of my father dances across my mind, vacant and gaunt with millions of tiny lines etchin' their way into his skin and paintin' a picture of greif. I breathe in and taste the flour that Esther insists must follow in her wake, hear her promises that the blaze took her life all at once. The smoulderin' ruins of what once was our house appear before me - I can see everythin' at once, feel every emotion that flickered through my soul in past six years. "No," I tell my mother.

She takes my hand silently, and we walk. We walk for a long time, and it doesn't occur to me to ask where we are, or where we are goin'. I simply remain silent and observe the ever-changin' scenery that fades in and out at my sides. At first, we walk through the graveyard but the headstones begin to morph into the elegant steeple of the Justice Buildin' which in turn twists until it has become our old front gate. We pause, and I notice at once that the sun has fallen from it's place in the sky and is tentatively offerin' us the heavy folds of night.

"Do you know when we are?" asks Mama, and I shake my head. I am not so used to this time-travellin' business - usually my dreams are fleetin' and faded, just like the memories that provide a backdrop to my life. Tonight, I can taste the fear in the air. Again, I shake my head slowly, filled with a dull sadness that does not beckon a reply. She does not offer one. So I open the gate the strong, steady hands, doin' my best not to hesitate. When Mama was alive - if, indeed, she not alive again now - she used to tell me that a man does not pause before he acts to ponder. He acts, and then reflects, for reflectin' before you act can only prolong whatever pain you're about to endure.

At the time, I wasn't convinced that every experience held pain. Since, I've learned she was right. I'd forgotten how pretty the flowers are that line the path to the door. Even in the dim light, the cobblestones and roses are welcomin' and familiar. Home. We open the door and step inside - I did not notice the cold and yet as soon as I feel the warmth of the fire upon my skin, I realize how chillin' the air outside remains. I huddle closer to my mother and follow in her footsteps as she climbs the stairs. "Beatrice!" I say to the tiny child who sits on the landin' with crossed legs and a match in her hands. I know she is my twin, and yet I tower over her six-year-old frame, shakin'. "Bea, stop!"

They say that I do not panic - that my movements are slow and methodical, if whimsical. Yet now I turn to my mother with wide eyes as my sister ignores my words. It is almost as though she is in one of her rages - blind to my hands holdin' her back and deaf to the pleas I make. She simply sits, unaware of our presence. "She can't hear you," says Mama, pressin' a finger to my lips and restin' her cool hand on my shoulder. The gesture is supposed to be comfortin', and yet she is supposed to be ten years dead. I shrug it off.

I watch my sister strike a match, frantic to let the light back inside. I want to stay and sit beside her on the top step, to coax her from her nightmare, and yet my mother tugs at my hand and insists we continue. I let her take me. "It's okay, Theodore," she says calmly, as though she doesn't know what is about to happen. Orion, almost nine years old, sits in his bedroom before the fire, pokin' it absentmindedly with heavy metal tongs. We walk along the corridor for a moment, and the darkness fades until we are downstairs again - the walls lined with family pictures and agein' portraits morph into the stove and cooker. Florence, small and petite, stands at the stove, watchin' smoke pour out over the pot she has laid upon it and sobbin' bitterly. I wonder for a moment if she has burned the food so she cannot eat it, and then I look into her childish eyes and hope that it cannot possibly be the case.

I edge backward, lookin' into the sittin' room where my father is sleepin'. His head rests on the back of the velvet armchair and baby Clara sits contently in his arms, watchin' the rise and fall of his chest. She seems completely content, a smile playin' out across her strikin' features. I do not remember her this way - a toddler, carefree and not yet gripped by the obsessions that plague us all now. She giggles and I spot my father's cigarette lighter between her chubby fingers, a tiny spark protrudin' from the top. "It's not okay, Mama." My mother only takes my hand and we step back into the kitchen, where the smoke billows black and thick and suffocatin'. I reach out for Florence, but I can no longer hear the hollow sound of her coughin'.

The smoke clears to reveal a door, and I turn the handle and step through it. My mother is no longer by my side - she sits at the window-seat, a young Esther playin' at her feet. She looks up as I walk in, smilin', and yet I see the way her eyes slide over me. Here, she is as beautiful as the day she died - for today is the day my mother dies. I try to remember the night from another perspective - surely six year old me is somewhere between these walls? I struggle to remember a blank night full of guesswork. It is only then that the flames begin to leap across the carpet and my Mama scoops Esther up into her arms and the child begins to scream that I remember. "Mama! Run!" I cry out, too late to save her.

That night, I was alone. I was in my room, and like every member of my family, I was playin' with fire. The house flutters away in a flurry of ash and peelin' strips of wallpaper, and I sink to my knees. For tonight, at least, I am free of the ghosts of my past.


. . .


"Now, being prepared for almost anything, he was not by any means prepared for nothing; and, consequently, when the Bell struck One, and no shape appeared, he was taken with a violent fit of trembling. Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour went by, yet nothing came.

All this time, he lay upon his bed, the very core and centre of a blaze of ruddy light, which streamed upon it when the clock proclaimed the hour; and which, being only light, was more alarming than a dozen ghosts, as he was powerless to make out what it meant, or would be at; and was sometimes apprehensive that he might be at that very moment an interesting case of spontaneous combustion, without having the consolation of knowing it.

At last, however, he began to think -- as you or I would have thought at first; for it is always the person not in the predicament who knows what ought to have been done in it, and would unquestionably have done it too -- at last, I say, he began to think that the source and secret of this ghostly light might be in the adjoining room, from whence, on further tracing it, it seemed to shine.

This idea taking full possession of his mind, he got up softly and shuffled in his slippers to the door."


I am not prepared for almost anythin'. I sit for a while - seconds or minutes or perhaps days, it is impossible to say. Only when the clock strikes midnight do I awaken from the daze I have fallen into. "Theodore," says my father, a ghost in his own right. The moonlight filters through the curtains, illuminatin' his sunken features and worried expression. I do not protest to his callin' me Theodore, although the others call me Teddy. It's not often that one of us argues with what Papa asks, even in a hastily changin' dream. It's not nighttime, although the moon glows clear and bright at the window. Instead, the sun appears to filter through the headstones and and mingle with the stars, bathing me and Papa in a neverendin' dusk.

I am not afraid of the dark. Not like Bea, anyway. In my mind, as long as the perpetual black is temporary and fleetin', all is well. For her, it is enough to send her into fits of panic and despair. "But you're afraid, just like me," said my twin once, an indignant expression in her eyes as I passed her another candle. I shrugged, but she pressed on with her words that burned into my mind like the flickerin' sparks that lit our birthday cake. "You're just afraid of a darkness that doesn't go away." She was right. In truth, the only thing I am afraid of is finality. Ends. Things that happen beyond my control that can never be undone, no matter what. It's a strange fear for a boy who lives in a graveyard and builds beds for those that will never, not once, see the light of day again.

Unlike my mother, my father does not take my hand. He never has been one to display excess affection. Not after the fire, anyhow. It's simple - we love him, and he loves us, and that's almost enough. He raises his hands without smilin' and suddenly my sister is dancin' on the grave before us. I watch her feet, supple and quick, landing silently on the grass. One after another, a turn, a pirouette, with floating arms and a sickenin' smile. "She's just a child, let her be," he said once, so we have. I watch now as she turns cartwheel after cartwheel. Like the last dream, I feel quite certain that she cannot see me or hear my heavy breathin', and yet even if I could call out and ask her to stop, I would not. What does it matter that she frolics over the bodies of the dead? What does any of it matter when there is a child smilin'?

Clara is gone, and now I am sittin' in the corner of my workshop, hidden by the shadows. I watch myself - no younger than I am now - as I line up a nail and drive it down into the wood. "It's an art, Esther," says the boy. He is quiet, concentrating wholly on the task at hand. And artist, he reaches out and carves a design into the wood, a carpenter of useless, beautiful trade. Bea says it's sad that I work so hard at what I do, bring to live pieces of wood with no soul and breathe finery into their every fraction. They are displayed for a short while, ignored by those who are too busy mournin' the contents to care for the hours of labour that created the coffin. And then it's thrown into the ground and covered up by dirt and it rots away. Sometimes I think that this is the real beauty in what I do.

"Tragic," replies Esther from within the coffin, and I watch myself sigh and ask her to get out. The Teddy across the room does not scorn his sister for the trail of flour she leaves scattered inside the casket - but I watch his face as he cleans every speck from the wood and she pouts and shrieks that he ought to pay her more respect for everythin' she's been through. When she insists that dyin' is awful, he flinches. As quickly as the workshop appeared, it is gone. For a moment I blink, missing the dusty cabinets and slightly disordered mess of nails and paint pots before I notice the room I am standin' in. My bedroom, high in the rafters of the ancient church. Beatrice is sittin' on my bed, shakin' her head as another boy who looks just like me and yet does not occupy the same physical space as myself lies on the floor. "One apocalypse at a time, please," she demands, and he takes a deep, shakin' breath.

I look at the cans piled below the bed, the knife that lies on my bedside table. A draw is cracked open, and inside I see hundreds of candles, all waiting to be lit. "Now, tell me what you're worrying about," says my sister, and as I open my mouth to speak I realise she cannot hear me as I am now. Instead, she adresses the boy on the floor. I do not want to listen to his words - surely I already know what I am afraid of? Eyes closed, I begin to count in my head. One: the sky falling and crushing each of us, trapping us within our houses and forcin' us together. Two: premature death, the kind that befell our mother. Three: the vacant expression that haunts my father. Four: Florence fading away completely and becomin' just like the bodies she prepares. Five: Clara cursing us to somethin' or another, her sins findin' their way into our lives and punishment following. Six: Esther believing her own sickly words. Seven: Beatrice in the darkness without me to reach for her and shed light. Eight: "Myself."

I realise now that I am cryin', and my father raises his hand and no longer do I stand in the corner of my bedroom. "Are you a ghost?" says Esther, looking right at me. Although it has perhaps been half the night, I cannot shake the feeling that nobody has seen me in a very long time. I nod, suddenly very calm. I pause, and then shake my head. "I'm a dream," I say, quite firmly, and she nods her head and rushes away, leaving me surrounded by white powder and coughing. I stand in the hallway for a time, watching the clock. It is a full turn of the hands before I realise that they are moving backwards, and flickering between the numbers at an uneven pace. I concentrate, struggling to pull my eyes into focus. When I finally see the numbers, I realise that they are letters, arranged to form a single warning. "Watch out, Theodore," says the clock, and I do. Always.

I wander through to the next room, where my two eldest siblings sit around a table, sipping at dark drinks and talking under their breath. I do not wish to pry; spyin' and sneakin' around is not something I ever want to be known for. "He's so lovely," says Florence absently, "but I do worry for him." As my brother inquires why, I attempt to turn and open the door, but the doorknob fades in my hand until I am graspin' at air. I try again, once, and then give up, not one to persist at anything but my coffins. My sister explains, then, and I cannot help but hear her describe somebody as both distant and confusing. She waves her hands about in desperation, grappling at words she cannot find.

"He'll be okay - we all will be," says Orion, and I hope they aren't talking about me. If I am the 'he' they speak of, how can they promise my safety, my sanity? Surely dismissing concerns will allow them to push away truths, leave things left unprepared for. Worry, although tiring, is surely the only way to predict everything, be ready for whatever may happen. When the darkness falls and my father leaves my side, and I quite ready for what comes next - as long as it's the sun.

. . .


"I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?" said Scrooge.
The Spirit answered not, but pointed downward with its hand.
"You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us," Scrooge pursued. "Is that so, Spirit?" The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant in its folds, as if the Spirit had inclined its head. That was the only answer he received.

Although well used to ghostly company by this time, Scrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it. The Spirit pauses a moment, as observing his condition, and giving him time to recover.
But Scrooge was all the worse for this. It thrilled him with a vague uncertain horror, to know that behind the dusky shroud there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him, while he, though he stretched his own to the utmost, could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap of black.


"Am I in the presence of a ghost that will show me my life yet to come?" I ask the dark figure before me, although it is concealed in shadow. I am not so much afraid as curious, and yet as I wait patiently the ghost does not reply. Time slows until I am quite sure it is not moving, and I stand still as death, waiting. It waits too, the figure clad in dark clothing. It's outline shows little - a boy, perhaps, or a man, with a masculine build and dull features. I squint, trying to make out more of him in the speckled light. Finally, I raise my hand to reach out and touch him, and, in perfect synchronisation, he does the same. A scream is stifled at my lips as the presence I felt disappears and I realise that I truly alone. The boy in the mirror does not smile and nor do I. The light glows brighter.

I take a moment to look at him. He is slightly bulky, with a sharp jawline and large, inelegant features. For the first time in my life, I notice the similarities between my reflection and my father - we hold the same full lips and broad shoulders. The faint cheekbones that protrude ever so slightly from my face are matched almost perfectly in the face of my father. It is only now, as I ponder this, that my reflection moves. I am still, breathing quietly. And then the mirror morphs without my noticing until I am gazing through a window at a boy who looks so very much like my reflection did. He moves without my command.

He stands over a coffin, hammering nail after nail into it's flesh. It's mesmerising, watching myself work. I'm not vain, and yet the craftsmanship and dedication I show is something I can admire in my twisted nightmare. His muscles bulge ever so slightly from his arms - something Florence would not approve of as she whittles her way down to a shadow. I see a boy who has never gone hungry. As the sun breaks through the curtains, he works. As it falls again, a day gone, he continues. Again and again the stars perform their cycle across the sky and the boy does not for a second waver. At first, his ageing is subtle. He grows stronger, his shoulders broadening and collarbones sinking. The short, roughly cut crop of honey-blonde waves atop his head grows longer, blocking his eyes from view. "Stop!" I say, when I cannot bare it any longer. "Please, stop."

He stops, and the room around him changes. A child rushes in, and he spreads out his arms to embrace it. When he lifts his head, I see the face of a much older man - no longer sixteen, but in his mid twenties. Still, he is surrounded by coffins and nails. Nothing has changed, despite the little boy who sits beside him, swinging his feet. Days pass, and while the child grows taller and stronger and begins to work away at his own projects, the Theodore inside the room droops. His posture falters and his smile drops until he is left looking vulnerable and bare.

A lady, pretty enough, enters the room cradling another child, an apron splattered with cake mixture tied around her waist. He looks at her, kissing her on the bridge of her nose, and then turns away. The boy, now almost a teenager himself sits on the floor, having long abandoned his father's work. The Theodore inside is persistant, and continues building the boxes, lining them up against the wall. His hair grows silver with age and worry, but he doesn't notice. "Why are you so empty?" I ask, my voice steady and without emotion. He doesn't look up, but the constant rhythm of his hammer falters.

Then the fire comes. Everything glows light, red flickering sparks dancing their way across the room. The boy shouts, the baby screams and the lady run from the room, their faces filled with fear. The wallpaper flakes away, running in great peels down the wall before it burns to ashes. I watch myself hesitate, taking one last, long glance at the coffins lined up against the walls. Then, instead of running free of the burning house, the man crosses the room and collapses at the foot of a coffin, sobbing onto the shining wood. "You need to run," I say as the walls split and great chunks of the roof fall in. He doesn't listen. He simply cries, harder and harder until he and his life's work is swallowed by flames.

I wait, and then I watch as, days later, the woman and child return and cry over the casket and the Theodore before me is lain to rest inside the coffin he built himself. "He always did love them more than us," says the boy, and I hope to myself that that statement is about something, anything other than what I dread. Surely this isn't how it ends. How I end. "Help!" I cry, suddenly feeling trapped between the walls, incapable of choosing another path.

The darkness, it will find us all in the end.

---

COMPLETE

---