Where We Lie

I’m bitter and miserable.

Countless hours spent on papers; many years of internships and apprenticeships have led me to this very moment. I yearned for this during those sleepless nights.

Yet here I am, solemn and cramped between a towering filing cabinet and a wall of boxes. One box in particular earns my ire as it sits inches away from my extended legs.

It’s not that research is a daunting task for our team. It’s the item in question. Professionals in the field for over thirty years have pushed the job to another person. It fell through ten pairs of hands before the Museum Director entrusted me with this laborious task.

I bemoaned that my specialty lies far from weaponry and armory.

The man I call Dad after hours typically responds, “You’ll get it done. You’re stubborn enough.”

Now, I glare at the sword before me, which nestles in a cushioned, white box, clueless of my disdain for it. I accepted the task with the desire to prove myself. The drive to get it done, however, has long left me after I’ve reviewed documents for hours.

The museum’s technology failed to date the wretched sword, and all outsourced labs say their results are inconclusive.

I snap on gloves like a surgeon and lift the sword from the box, studying its details.

The overall condition of the sword is remarkable. The blade catches the fluorescent lights from above with few inconspicuous specs of rust. At first glance, I could’ve concluded the sword was forged barely a decade ago.

In comparison, the hilt’s physicality is far less dazzling. It’s the smaller details of the hilt that has me scratching my head. Foreign etchings present themselves on the wood. The symbols are too rounded for Nordic mythology, too crowded for Ancient Greek lettering, and too simple for Egyptian hieroglyphics.

Adding to my grief, an artisan carved the hilt from an untraceable wood. I drag my gloved fingers along the hilt and examine the polished sword.

My bitterness dissolves the longer I gaze at the weapon. Determination to solve this puzzle overcomes me wholly.

Setting the sword down, I crack my fingers and jump to stand. Steering around the blade, box, and my laptop, I tug open one of the file drawers. Dust bunnies take flight, and I wave the air around my face.

As the dust dances around me and into my lungs, I start flipping through the different files. Pulling out anything, something, that can provide insight into this damn sword.

With a pile of files cradled in my arms, I waddle back to where I originated and plop down. Snatching the energy drink I saved in my bag, I crack it open and chug the liquid gold, marking the beginning of the dreadful task.

✧

I stop short of throwing in the towel while rubbing my dry eyes. Lines jumble together as I try to decipher words that no longer read well in my dazed brain.

Heaps of read articles, scavenged records, and consumed databases lead to nothingness and despair. Everything was a dead end. The closest comparability was the gladius sword from the Latium villagers during the establishment of Rome. But even then—it was less than the perfect match.

“Enough of this,” I scoff as I toss a paper into a discarded pile on the floor.

Massaging my stiff shoulders, I glance at a clock, begging for sympathy from the time. The numbers offer no comfort as they tell me the hour of the night.

3 a.m.

The single digit motivates my movements. In a flash, my belongings are packed away and any mess I’ve made finds a new home in the trash bin. Lacking my long-gone grace, I heedlessly gather the spewed files and place the wicked sword in its box on a dusty shelf.

I spare no time as I sprint out of the secluded room. The door locks behind me as I proceed to exit the museum with my dwindling energy.

The brisk walk home doesn’t stop my footsteps from mimicking the undead as I sway.

Then at my haven, I fumble with the keys and curse under my breath. Relief floods my system when they finally connect with the lock.

Unlocking the door without a care of the volume, I slip through the first presented crack. Haphazardly, I hook my keys on a shelf situated to my immediate left.

“I’m home,” I whisper to no one in particular.

Living with a museum director also means our house emulates history. Classic wood furniture, rich deep colors, and warm lighting fill the rooms. Antique pieces are showcased throughout the maximalism space. Even picture frames are dated, or are replicas, from the sixteenth century.

With heavy feet, I trudge through the house and yearn for my most desired destination, lovingly known as my bed.

I burst through my bedroom door with the remnant of my energy and peel off my bag, aimless in throwing it onto the floor. I change into pajamas with sluggish movements.

Wasting no time, my plush and lightweight covers are thrown up in the air. I roll underneath them before they can float down. The fabric drapes heavenly over my body. Replicating a cricket, I rub my feet together as I snuggle deeper under the sheets.

A loud yawn escapes past my lips and I put up no challenges as sleep engulfs my body and mind.