(Story written for Artoons writers room.

Prompt: To write a story where the main character is not a person, but a setting)

Rickery-rick’s last stand

Rickery-rick, old and weary…

I sigh at the twilight of my life in this storeroom, the air thick with the dull earthy stench of old stone, mingling with the tang of mildew, heavy and uninviting. Long forgotten, the sharpness of dust now clings to every pore on my body stripped of the bright polish I once prided myself on….

I was a part of Sumitra’s dowry when she married into this ‘haveli’ four decades ago. Her son Suraj christened me Rickery-Rick because of the rickety noise my stubborn hinges made whenever they opened or shut me up.

Rickery-rick, a jolly good fellow…

Suraj would have never let me languish here. I cradled his deepest secrets close to my ebony heart. I soothed him to sleep as Sumitra’s husband passed and her brother moved in to take his place. That man was nasty to the core. Vile to the marrow, he reeked of liquor, his malodour filling the house as he shoved and battered young Suraj, while Sumitra, lost in her own haze, consumed godforsaken herbs to still her nerves. Taking over the business took its toll on motherhood. She never believed her brother abused her son.

Rickery-rick let the floodgates slide…

Suraj got older and strong enough to overpower the uncle and threw him out of the haveli.

Suraj married his childhood sweetheart and soon Ananya’s birth brought in the much-needed respite in the somber household. I was now, grandfather Rick! The cherubic angel with her toothless smile lit up my aging body. I belonged to her… heart and soul.

But one day the uncle returned, pleading forgiveness, feigning change. In truth he harbored malice

That man killed my Suraj and his wife in cold blood. I was the prime witness and I tried to protest. The vile man’s blood-shot eyes flickered with fear as they met mine.

Sumitra plunged into the throes of untamed grief and the uncle seized everything- the company and little Ananya’s ‘care’…

I was banished to this store room waiting for Ananya’s rare glimpse. She alone keeps me alive.

Rickery-rick, with fury anew…

I hear the familiar jingling of anklets but this time they sound different. Something is wrong… I can feel it in my woody insides. The storeroom door creaks open then shuts. Ananya runs to me, pulls open my door, slips inside, and muffles her cries against her palms. Oh, God… bruises. Just like Suraj once bore. I will not let history repeat itself.

The storeroom door bursts open and the old, haggard uncle stumbles in, reeking of liquor. Ananya gasps.

Rage fills me, flooding my hollow frame with strength. He pants, clawing at my door.

That’s it.

I snap.

I sway. Harder. Around me the other furniture join, rattling in chorus. Terror floods his face. He stumbles back. I heave forward, teetering, until my weight crashes down on him. His legs crush under my hollow might. His wails peak—then die, as the nightstand topples, splitting his skull.

My Ananya is safe.