The Display Window

The Display Window

He uses the blade to cut off one last sliver and stands back to scrutinise his work once more. Finally, he says to himself, exhaling a sigh of relief. A shiver runs down his spine; a result of having spent so much time in the cold room, combined with a realisation of how human it looks. She, he corrects himself. Turning around, he places the blade back on the gleaming silver tray as he collects his coat from the coat hanger. He dons it, and immediately looks ten years older, with the air of an experienced physician, instead of the youthful twenty-eight-year-old man he actually is. As he reaches to turn off the light, he casts one long last look at his masterpiece. Trudging slowly home in the dark, a feeling of melancholy sets upon him as he reminisces the past he shared with his beloved. He was going to propose, and they would get married in the fall. But as fate would have it, she was run over by a bullock cart pulled by a rampaging buffalo, just hours before what was supposed to be the most memorable dinner yet.

Unlocking the door, he struggles with the decision of whether his latest work should be put up for sale. Maybe as an exhibition item, he thinks to himself. Noticing the mess on the floor, he removes his coat and starts sweeping the abundance of wax shavings, engrossed in his own thoughts. Only after he places the broom and dustpan back where they belong, does he notice, as his heart skips a beat, that the figurine of his late almost-fiancée is not where he left it. Panicking, he runs to the front of the store, thinking that he must have been burgled. He does a double take as he notices her sitting in the display window of his shop. Confused, he retrieves her and places her back in the workshop. Just as he begins to ponder, the phone rings with a call of an urgent nature.

It continues; the changing of her position; occasionally in the display window again, at other times in his office or seated at the table in his kitchenette. Curiosity gets the better of him, and he decides to nab the perpetrator. As he sits at his table in the office bookkeeping late into the night, he hears noises outside. Slowly turning off his table lamp, he lights and picks up the kerosene lamp and one of his trophies as a weapon. Creeping to the door, he reaches for the knob and slowly opens it. He gasps, dropping the trophy in his hand as his eyes widen in shock.

In front of him, the figurine, dusting the cabinet in which he keeps his instruments of craft. She hears his gasp and the crash of the trophy behind her, and wheels around, her movements fluid and natural; almost as if her wax limbs were real flesh and muscle. Her doll-like eyes light up at the sight of him. She takes his hand in her own cold, waxy ones and leads him to a table. He does not notice the cold for he is still in shock. She asks him to remain seated, rushing off to the kitchenette. Returning with a cup of tea, she sets it in front of him. By now, he recovers enough from his stupor to string together enough words for a few sentences. With a smile on her lips, she explains herself.

The night she was completed, she came alive as the town bell rang at midnight. Dazed and confused, she stumbled all over the place, finally entering his office, causing a rush of memories so colourful and vivid to flood back into her. In her daze, she sat in the window of his shop, staring at the moon until morning came. Since then, she has been seeing him in the visions during the day, dream-like and surreal. Being unable to talk to him, she satisfied herself with housekeeping.

Coming back to reality, he is unable to shake away his doubts and asks her about the past they shared together. Sure enough, she remembers, and is able to answer his questions. His eyes flood with tears as he places his arms around her, only to pull back quickly for fear of her melting. Not being able to withhold his feelings, he pulls out a box containing the very same ring he was planning to propose to her with before her untimely demise. A hint of sadness fills her eyes, as she explains to him the consequences of his actions. He does not falter, and so, she takes the ring from him and slips it onto her delicate wax finger. He takes her hand in his, no longer cold to the touch, as the town bell sounds three times.

It is early in the morning, just a slight bit past the crack of dawn. A mother is seen walking with her son; his hand in hers. Suddenly, he pulls away from her and runs across the road to the display window of a store, looking in intently. His mother catches up to him, the beginning of a reprimand trailing off into silence as her sight falls upon the wax figures of a handsome young man with a ring box in one hand and in the other, the delicate fingers of a pretty young lady seated in a chair, their gazes pointed at each other. The boy then says, “Don’t they look happy?”

~written 10th August 2011, Angeliie