Catherina - Day 10

You arrived at this town late at night, long after everything had closed down, and only a few lights penetrated through the fog as guidance. You were younger then, at an age when nothing concerned or scared you – no, haunted house and ghost stories were a different thing – they only set you off by visual shocks, not your active repugnance.

Holding onto the handle of your suitcase, you entered a curbside restaurant with a broken neon sign on top of the glass gate. Inside was empty, dimly light, and a few square tables – each with four chairs - scattered across the lounge. You sat at the table closest to the gate, waving to call the waiter, who almost yawned at your gesture.

"Welcome." The waiter, the only other living being in this place, threw a laminated menu onto your table, and you saw that nearly half of the dishes were stroke off with hard, black marks. He stood beside you, blocking the already feeble light while you skimmed through of that one page – now half page, as half of it was practically ineligible.

How long would he wait for? You questioned silently. If I took long enough, would he go back to the counter and come again when I call? No, no, that's too much effort for a late-night shift. Walking to and fro was not a smart choice.

You counted your breath, staring at the menu with no focus. At the edge of your vision, you could see the waiter impatiently shifting his weight – the stretch and crease of his black pants betrayed his movement. Finally, one half that that black piece moved out of your view – the waiter made a step back, announcing his retreat. A moment before he had fully turned, you ordered, "this noodle, please." Scribbling something onto a notebook, the waiter, almost rudely, made an indifferent statement, "It will be coming soon." Then, he grabbed the menu and walked to the counter at the end of the lounge, yawning while calling to the kitchen, "one seafood noodle."

The table's surface had a greasy reflection as if someone had scrubbed it with fat instead of water. Therefore, you chose not to fold your arms over it for your head to lean on, despite the sleepiness being nearly irresistible, especially when you had nothing to do other than playing with your suitcase's zipper. Zip open. Zip back. That sound irritated you in a few moments, and thus you left the case underneath your chair and turned towards the glass gate.

The night fog sheltered the town under its domain, shutting off every window and door to prevent an overflow of light. It was thick, semi-fluid, and suffocating - like an ink-permeated cacoon. Perhaps, your arrival had maintained this last, dying light at the restaurant. With some efforts to widen your eyes and thereby dilate your pupils (just like cats), you could make out the vague outline of a road – the main street of this town that connected its east end to the west – and buildings and trees along its side.

The waiter served you the seafood noodle, a few drops of soup dripped onto the table when he laid the bowl. As if not noticing anything, the waiter bade you "enjoy" and again, crawled back behind the counter. You finished the meal without tasting, for ingestion served a mere biological purpose, not entirely a sensual one. Besides, you would regret ordering it if you did allow your taste buds to function fully.

You finished the meal, paid at the counter, and exited the restaurant with your suitcase in one hand – which was quite a burden. Thinking thus, you did not notice that your hands became free, and the suitcase had vanished, melting away before you had realized.

Walking a block eastward, you saw a scooter leaning against a tree with white paint covering its lower half. The scooter was not locked, inspiring you to borrow it (note the diction here: borrow – suggesting that you will return it to this very spot after usage), for you could see a long, seemly infinite stretch of dusty road ahead of you.

The scooter worked fine, keeping a steady pace at a block a minute. Silence cloaked the night: no wind, no breeze, not a single howling of owls or cats. The fog was suffocating. Suddenly, you felt as if you had heard something. Turning your head quickly, you caught a glimpse of milky white emptiness – nothing was behind you. Still, that feeling of being tailed haunted you, and thus you prayed to reach the end of the street in no time – what were you expecting to be there? You did not know.

Miraculously you found yourself in front of a palace: crimson walls, marble stairs, glazed tiles, and wooden beams. You set the scooter beside you, seeing on its surface some dark spots where the paint had peeled away, exposing the metallic inside. Wait – you could see it. The darkness had gone, and yet it was neither night nor day. The palace stood in a solemn shade of grey, the foregoer of summer rain.

Walking towards the palace, you turned right before its wooden front gate with rows of golden bumps decorating its surface. You aimed at the side stair winding upwards, leading to the back of the palace.

The end of the stairs was behind the palace's outermost wall. It was the exact spot which, perhaps centuries ago, the emperors had stood amid his officers to look at his territory beyond his life's reach. This palace confined the emperors - thought you, and that these pathetic souls possessed no more freedom than a daring intruder.

Turned, back against the wall, you walked through the veranda. On its left lined a series of rectangular windows with intricate patterns on their wooden frames, and on its right was a garden – ten meters above the ground- where green was the only color, suffocating the others. Out of sheer respect or doubt, you bent your back while speeding through the veranda. It was an open space, and people could easily spot you – although hardly anyone could inhabit this ruminant of the past.

At the end of the veranda, you turned left, standing in front of a slope that led downwards. You descended and again ascending, walking around a corner, and ascending. The structure of this wooden labyrinth you could not remember clearly. Still, it was evidently a path for the commoners, at least not for any senior members of this elite society. This covered bridge (or veranda – you see, it had a ceiling supported by beams, but it lay neither on the flat ground nor over a river) sunk below the walls, and only a seam of skylight could come through the gap between the ceiling and the adjacent wall - too depressing a design.

Suddenly you heard voices – distant, indistinguishable, and most likely belonged to a group of people – coming from the direction of that green garden. With walls stretching far above your head, you could see no one. Nonetheless, anyone coming from over yonder could easily spot you, as they were high up.

What could you do? You looked around you, seeing nothing except the lifeless marble walls and the wooden beams. How you wish you have the agility to climb upon the wall like ninjas and hid among the beams!

Then, you found yourself safely on a beam, and the ceiling was so close to you that you had to practically lie on your stomach to avoid contact with its rough planks. How queer it was! And yet you took it for granted.

You shut your eyes, concentrating all your senses onto listening. First, you heard your breath; then, your heartbeat. The sound you previously heard grew louder, and among the noises, you could distinguish a high-pitched voice. However, it was still too far, and it remained meaningless.

Attempting to move your left foot to reach for another beam, you slowly shifted your weight, hands pressing down to lift your chest from the one you lay on. Creak. The wooden shaft that bore your weight shivered, and you along with it. You did not know how to get down - just as you did not know how you came up.

You remained motionless, hearing that group of people coming closer – now that they had descended by the same slope you had taken. Quiet footsteps. Tap, tap. You could make out a word or two, something like "intruder" and "catch." They must be looking for someone then. Would that be you?

You pray that they could not find you – your head tucked into your arms, giving such limited space that you were inhaling the air you had just exhaled.

Closer, closer. The voices were still blurred, despite the footsteps approaching. They had only a corner to turn to walk beneath you.

You dared to tilt your head so you could see beneath the beam – darkness. Nothing. The inhabitants of this palace were not to be seen.

photo credit: https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.gq.com%2Fstory%2Fthe-great-chinese-art-heist&psig=AOvVaw2OXIdY2oJikXMyza4aTEzV&ust=1592011679659000&source=images&cd=vfe&ved=0CAIQjRxqFwoTCLD9kvmP--kCFQAAAAAdAAAAABAD