Marionettes: Preview

The last step on the stairs is shallower than the rest, and made of stone instead of wood. And Flores, who has been living here his whole life, trips on his way down for the first time in years. He is going to check the post. He won't open it, won't even approach the diverse envelopes that always fall, one by one, through the slot in the back door. He will watch the postman's shadow lean down, trying to catch a glimpse inside he hall as he goes, then see Flores instead, and correct himself swiftly. Like clockwork, the papers tick onto the doormat.

He takes a seat on the bottom step and waits for the clicking heels of the maid to approach.

Tick tick tick tick.

They muffle once she gets closer and tile turns to burgundy carpet, stretched out sideways along the back of the house. The front is all hardwood, waxed to oblivion. No clicking heels over there, it's always quiet, quieter than a haunted house.

The maid's skirts ruffle as she bends down and reads the front of the letters. She picks them up, but the journey to standing is a laboured one. Her knees tick into place and she's upright again. Not all that she used to be, when she played Peter's mother. Her new role is, admittedly, favourable compared to that. Now, she can disregard him when she turns to redirect the letters into another slot, this one in the door of his father's study. As they hit the carpet on the other side (last Flores checked, it was blue) the maid calls out his little brother's name.

Only then does Flores stand.

Flores stands when he is asked to ('All rise') and his dark blue suit is freshly pressed, shirt starched within an inch of its life, collar too tight. He wonders if anyone can see where the corner pricks at his Adam's apple. It hurts to breathe, to swallow, and, he assumed, it will hurt to talk.

Seeing as that's what he's here to do, Flores allows himself a moment to despair what is to come, then opens his mouth, and pleads 'Not guilty.'