Eight of Cups #3 - the storm

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He wiped the dust from the cards.
Darkness grew in the corners of the room.
The thunder protested loudly, and the windows rattled at the sound.

He dealt.

It was as if the room had been swallowed, almost whole. Darkness had clawed its way through the walls. Nickόlaus’ haven had rain pelting down at it from all sides, the wind roaring at him as if it were a personal attack. Nickόlaus’ ears were ringing, his eyes watered with the torment of it. His fear of the dark was one of the few things he had retained from his childhood.

He could not see.
Everything was just too loud.
He could not see.
He’d run out of candles the night before last.
He still could not see.
The door clung desperately to its hinges.








And as the wind grew in ferocity, and as the house shook as if frightened, and as the floorboards creaked and shifted and writhed in agony under the storm that assaulted them, Nickόlaus turned to the comfort of his hiding place, under the table that his father built. He trembled violently, the length of his limbs contorted to make himself as small as possible. The iridescent glow of the moon became sallow through the grime, disappearing completely behind a blanket of dark cloud. A murmur slipped from his lips. Although there was no one there, he was desperate to keep his fear inside. As if the utterance aloud would create a gateway for the real monsters to emerge. His leather shoes poked out from under the table. His neck twisted to fit under the barrier that served him so well for fifteen years.
The door opened, and light footsteps brought in the rain. Nickόlaus caught his breath and closed his eyes tight. Slipped under the table, and into his groping fingertips was a gift, a blessing.
A candle from His Anna.