Everyday, Mr. Gerard rises from his bed to check inside the wardrobe. He always sags in relief, upon finding nothing changed and goes to the bathroom sink to splash his face. The sky outside is grey, the sound of birds is deafening. Mr. Gerard's appearance is vague this early in the morning. It is not yet 7. He is just a smudge through the greying white curtains of the bedroom window. As he combs his silky head, he seems to spot something through those curtains outside. His body tenses, but he does not go to check.
It's unknown what he gets up to until 8, when he is next seen. The kitchen blinds slowly crack open - one hesitant blind at a time. Mr. Gerard's eyes peer through the gaps all the while, searching the hedges beyond his back yard. I imagine he would rather keep the blinds shut at all times, owing to his paranoid heart, but his eyesight doesn't allow it. He is very old now. Using the light from the window, he scrubs his boots, then cleans them down and kneels to pray. As the church caretaker, the habit of prayer is often taken to.
From 9, he's on the move - trundling along the small stone path into Burrow. He graciously stacks one leg before the other. There is no rush now. The way is interspersed with large oak trees. Evergreen? His walking pace is consistent, though upon moving beyond one of these great oak monoliths, he seems to stop. The edges of his eyes peer around the wooden bodies at something far off in the fields beyond. Several cars thunder down the stretch, but always upon seeing old Mr. Gerard, they slow and the driver salutes him. Everyone loves Mr. Gerard.
Past the duckpond, he switches to the other side of the road. The path turns from cobbles to tarmac under his boots. His boots skid around and he stops every few meters, anxiously turning. His gaze scans the way he has come, searching for something. He cannot seem to find it. He hastily pulls out something from his pocket and drops it by his feet. He moves on, continuing another hundred meters. The item he discarded was a hastily concocted note reading, "Stop following me". Mr. Gerard has at this point turned again, and is again staring at the empty stretch behind him.
The bells are crying out. Mr. Gerard, whose first name is Harry, is kneeling against the church wall, or else he is slouched or awkwardly crouching. He was, from the distance, just a dark smudge huddled against the bricks. As the angelus is finishing its last few tolls, another figure - who will later be revealed to be Mr. O'Burke - comes upon Mr. Gerard and the two engage in a conversation. It is clear that through this conversation, Mr. Gerard is making clear his paranoia. He points back behind him and the two men stare down the road. 119Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGE8aIP3LeY
Within the church, the altar bells tremble in Mr. Gerard's hand. He is staring down the empty nave. Father Buckley rests his large hands on Mr. Gerard's - at which the man snaps out of his trance. He can't help staring however, and often sneaks glances while the priest is distributing the eucharist to other members of the congregation. The priest stands behind the altar after the boys have been fed and intones, 'and with your spirit.' For just a moment, he too spies something - a figure, perhaps, or a darkened unaccompanied shadow - just out of sight.
The angelus is ringing once more, as Harry stumbles through the humble side exit. His eyes are darting all over the churchyard, whose many trees owe to many hiding places. Defeated, lost, he wanders on. He reaches the general store after some minutes and enters. He becomes just a faint glint through the windows. Mr. Gerard and the shopkeeper's husband, Mr. McCarthy return out the front and Harry points to a spot far off in the tree line to the left, after a moment he adds something and they stare somewhere else. For all his anxiety, Mr. McCarthy can't seem to see what Mr. Gerard does.
A day far in the future. The church bell is ringing out. Birds scattering through the skies. There is chaos as Mr. Gerard emerges from his vehicle, swung haphazardly across a road. The old man takes off running, pushing past a worn metal gate, into a field. I will catch you he seems to be saying. The sounds of honking cars is drowned out by Harry's leaping footsteps. He retches across the field until he reaches the far end, where he simply stares over the ditch to the next field over.
He sees me then, his body sweating, his hands quaking. Bells tolling, crows cawing, horns honking. All the world is chaos, but we share this moment. He won't be able to see much of me, from where the two of us stand. Terror-filled, he screams out, "What have I done?" I will not answer him, not today. The breeze rushes past us. "Who are you?" he calls. Then, "I will kill you!" At this vile combination of words, I begin to step towards him. He flees, stumbling. I will answer him. It will be today.
Later that night, he anxiously shuffles around his room. The sounds of his feet along the whining floorboards, the sound of the tap running and water splashing on his face, the sound of more footsteps. They reach the front of the wardrobe, but he is unable to open the doors. He just sobs and climbs into bed. The light switch snaps off. There is a long silence, before the wardrobe doors creak open. His sobs shake out of his throat. Getting closer, I realize that he is repeating a phrase over and over: "Is it today?" I answer with my silence. 119Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ05se0CvvbD
and then Add to home screen.