I was mid-way through multiple threads and trying to explain how picking an image can launch me into a story and wrote this little snippet. It was for this image.
The strange old Butler lead me to a circular chamber in the center of the house that held naught but a spiraling stair case.
The wrought iron handrail was designed for beauty as well as safety, and as I placed my hand upon it I registered the irony of how much my heart filled with trepidation as I grasped it.
My destiny awaited me at the top of those stairs, and I didn't want to face it.
I placed one heavy, satin slippered foot on the mahogany and gathered the will to lift myself up. The toe of my slipper was too-soon veiled by the hem of my gown and I searched for the next ledge with its twin. My knuckles were white against the deep blue satin. I must look as scared as I felt.
That would never do. I couldn't afford to look afraid.
I raised my chin and looked upward, putting as much resolution into my climb as I could muster. As I ascended my eyes were treated to an ever expanding view of the paiting within the dome at the top of the stairs.
It was no romantic scene, no patstural bliss to ease my mind. No, it was war, conflict, mighty battle, like the one I waged with myself inside my breast. My heart played along with the silent beat of the war drums, my belly felt the lurch of the war horse, the twist of the steel.
I felt my innocence was bleeding away from me the closer I drew to that battle scene. Perhaps by the time I reached the lone door upon the landing my childhood would have drained out of me, and a woman would knock on the door.