Leopold

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Leopold stood at the cliff edge, his coat tails whipping in the bitter northern wind. Dressed in slightly shabby finery, he looked every bit the faded gentleman. Neatly ironed trousers, slightly worn at the ankles; pearly white dinner jacket; a tidy bow tie, it reminded him of the golden days of his youth.
No, he shook his balding head, it did not. He was letting nostalgia get to him, the way it always did. He was sure he was just as desperate then as he was now; he just didn’t remember it that way. If only we lived in memories, he thought, we could all be happy. Instead, we’re stuck in a reality as unfair as it is nonsensical. He snorted, and pushed his wide-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his nose. In his right hand he held a bouquet of flowers, a bright patch of yellow amidst the grey of this winter’s evening. In some deeply poetic way, he supposed, they signified him in this whole damned parody of a marriage. Trying, against all hope, to stay bright and positive, when all about him was pressuring, suffocating, drab, persistent, everlasting misery and defeat.
Well, he sneered, it had gone on long enough. Imagine how they would feel when they learned that old Leopold had finally given in – his flowers had finally wilted. It was the relief he craved the most, relief from disappointment. He was just so sick of all his efforts going to waste, as if his whole life was some divine joke. He was sick of trying, only to be met with defeat again and again and again. He craved peace.
Leopold stepped forward to the cliff top, but didn’t look down. He stopped for a moment, arms outstretched, embracing the wind. It was, he decided, his last sensation. He opened his mind to the feeling of the wind rushing at his skin. He hated it. So much for that, then. Even now, the universe couldn’t resist one last kick in the balls.
Shaking his head, he stepped forward, and felt nothing more.

Leopold awoke with his head resting against a comfortable pillow. Without opening his eyes, he marvelled at the feeling of deep-seated harmony resonating throughout his soul. It was just like one of the wife’s ridiculous books, he thought, more concerned with spiritual nonsense than just getting the hell on with life. He realised that this was the best night’s sleep he had had in a long while. He hadn’t felt so relaxed since…well, ever.
He opened his eyes slowly, and stared at the chest of drawers across the room. One of the knobs was missing, from where he had wrenched it open in a rage. He wondered what had happened to that knob. He had meant to fix it back on, but that was just before all the trouble with the wife began, and he hadn’t had time since.
He slid his gaze across the wall, over the bookshelf crammed with his histories, over the radio in the corner. He idly wondered when the wife had redecorated the room - it had never been white before - but the thought passed as quickly as it had come. He could feel a slight breeze on the back of his neck; that meant the wife was up and had opened the window. Strangely, he could hear no birdsong, which was unusual for mornings in their sleepy village.
Slightly confused, he drew back the covers, and stepped out of bed. He marvelled at how light he felt, and how little his trick knee was hurting. A good night’s sleep indeed.
He padded across the white carpet, past the white dressing table, and pulled back the white curtains. Everything seemed normal; a row of white houses in an ordinary English village, lines of parked white cars either side of the road. He looked up into the tall birch tree just outside his window, but could see no birds. Perhaps some youth had scared them away somehow – that was just the kind of thing they would do. Kids had no respect for anything these days.
Shaking his head, he turned back inside and approached the tall, white wardrobe. Running a hand through his lustrous black hair, he suddenly stopped. He ran his hand through his hair again, surprise spreading across his face. He quickly reached out to open the wardrobe, and looked directly into the wall-length mirror on the inside of the door.
Gone was the portly, balding man who could do no right. The flabby jowls, the widening stomach, the constant frown, all were gone. In their place stood a well-built young man, with a thick mane of hair and piercing brown eyes. This was the Leopold of the golden days - young Leo. Shaking his head, he wondered why that mattered. Of course it was young Leo, who else would it be? Some doddery old fart? Of course not.
He pulled on his white trousers and a white polo neck, combed his hair, and pulled on some comfortable white shoes. He winked at his reflection in the mirror, and smiled.
Turning smartly on his heels, Leo strode over to the bedroom door, and was met with a sight he certainly did not expect.

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Please, don't try and understand it. Just reply so I can post again later.

 

It seems good so far

But all is not what it seems, it seems...

)V. Good in other words )

 

Interesting, so far. It's very good, methinks.

 

Very... White? LOL

I like it, quite mysterious and so intriguing the way he just shrugs of his sudden youth. i look forward to the next part.

 

Interesting, I guess this spells the doom for your other story though

 

Instead of the landing he had grown used to, Leo stepped out into a vast, open area in a circular arrangement. It was like being in the inside of an enormous pipe, around the circumference of the circular void were thousands of unremarkable white doors leading out onto balconies. These balconies stretched up and down as far as Leo could see, and he suddenly felt very small. It reminded him of the bit in Star Wars – the bit he had watched for the first time when he had taken the kids to see it in the cinema. The bit where the boy – what was his name? – and the big man with the black helmet had a fight with their glowing swords. He didn’t remember the details, just that someone’s hand got cut off, and that it took place in an enormous tube like the one he was now stood in.
He moved to the rail at the edge of his balcony, and looked around. With his sharp eyes, he could just about make out the far side. There was no one around; the whole place was deserted. Leo felt a little like he was in a hotel corridor at four in the morning – nothing but him and rows of doors, leading to who-knows-where. Granted, it would have to be an enormous hotel, and the space between the rooms seemed a little impractical for an accommodation facility.
Strangely, he didn’t feel frightened or bemused – just curious. He looked back to the door he had emerged from, but it had closed. Without testing it, Leo knew it would not be opening again. Before he could wonder what to do next, a voice startled him from over his left shoulder.
“Leopold, we assume?” He turned on his heel, and beheld two smartly dressed men. They both wore long felt coats of deep black, and their shoes were meticulously polished to a bright sheen. One wore a bowler hat, but it was not this that captured Leo’s attention. Rather, it was the presence of enormous, seven-foot wings attached to the backs of both men. They were covered with white feathers, and Leo truly believed that, should the men wish it, they could fly away. He shook himself.
“Ah…yes, that’s me.” The men looked at each other and nodded, and for the first time, Leo noticed their eyes. They were pitch black, without iris or pupil, as if they led to another dimension of pure darkness. Leo was not revolted, merely intrigued.
“Try not to be alarmed,” the one with the bowler hat said, “but you are dead.” Leopold knit his forehead at this revelation. He supposed it made sense, and it would do as an explanation for all these strange happenings.
“We are here to take you to your hearing,” continued the one without a bowler hat, “please follow us. Oh, and don’t forget to take this pamphlet. It might help you a little.” The man pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, handed it to Leo, and turned away. Leo glanced briefly at the leaflet. It was entitled “So you’re dead – what do YOU want to do about it?” He threw it over the edge of the balcony, and trotted after the retreating men.

The winged men led Leopold along the balcony a way, and then stopped at what appeared to be an escalator. It descended deep into the void, further than he could see. They gestured that he should climb on, but he insisted that they go first. He didn’t want to make a bad impression, after all.
As the escalator carried them further and further down, Leo realised that he recognized the general manner and appearance of the men – they were Jehovah’s witnesses. It certainly fit with the pamphlet they had given him. Didn’t they believe that only a few of the faithful would go to heaven or something? He hoped not, because that would mean curtains for him.
“Leopold, might we talk to you for a moment?” asked one of the witnesses.
“Of course,” he replied. Bowler-hat nodded his thanks.
“I’ll just take a minute to explain your situation. You see, when you die, your mind physically manifests itself in the form at which you experienced your life’s peak. For you, this appears to have been around the age of twenty. However, although you maintain the appearance and mindset you possessed at this time, your memories remain. You are essentially a sixty year old man in the body and mind of a twenty year old youth.”
Leo nodded.
“We also find that, during our lifetimes, our emotions tend to lead us to making decisions we would not, in rational circumstances, have made. Fear, anger, love, all of these things interfere with our brains, and can often lead to violence. Violence cannot be tolerated here. Therefore, we take the liberty of lowering the hormones existent in every individual’s brain after they die. People are still capable of feelings, but they are muted for a while, until we have finished our dealings with you.”
Leo nodded again.
He noticed then that a ground level, of sorts, was approaching. It looked a little like the shopping areas of airports. Various kiosks were spread throughout the circular area, and the smell of cooking vegetables reached his nose. His stomach did not growl. The vendors did not seem to have signs written in any language, merely symbols that, although appearing unfamiliar, perfectly conveyed their meaning. Looking at a symbol in red that appeared to be a harp without strings or a base, Leo instantly knew it meant “newsagent”. The place was, once more, entirely deserted.
As soon as the trio alighted from the escalator, Leo’s curiosity was denied, and the witnesses led him over to a pair of enormous wooden doors on one wall.
“If you’d like to follow us,” no-hat whispered, “your hearing is about to commence.”

 

ooh! This is getting interesting

 

ooh! This is getting weird

 

Wow... this is almost remniscient of Stephen King's Insomnia. Very cool, Yerril.

 

This story is great, I hope you are continuing.