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November 12, 2007

Nanowrimo:name

He sits up slightly, resting on his forearms, and squints into the darkness. He realises he’s still wearing his shirt and underpants, his socks and shoes are off though. He’s loathe to leave the warm cocoon his body heat has made of the bed and it takes him a while, and indeed, a deep breath to shift himself up further and then sideways out of the bed to plant his feet onto the carpet. He stands eventually and takes a gentle stretch to see if his body is working properly. It seems to be. A little stiff in the lower back, maybe, but that’s to be expected. He runs his hands over his arms and legs and can feel no bruising, which, considering what he can remember of the morning, is surprising. His body still holds the sensation of weightlessness, of falling and it is not a liberating one. It is a feeling of desperation, of clutching.

He walks towards the door and stops outside it, straining to listen, to see if anyone else is in the cabin. There seems to be a little light around the rim of the door, but it is the same bluish white light, and faint at that, fainter than from behind the curtain. Opening the door, he finds the sun lounge empty, no lights on, the carriage clock ticking tightly to itself in a corner, its white face overly bright in what turns out to be moonlight, shimmering through the front windows and flooding the cabin. The door to the Major’s bedroom is ajar slightly, and the man walks to it and gently presses with the palm of his hand so that it tilts open further. He realises, to his relief, that the bed is empty, the blankets still flat and neatly folded, the pillow undented. So he is alone in the cabin. He has to admit that the feeling of carpet under his feet is not unpleasant, but he’s starting to feel the chill a bit, so he goes back into his bedroom and puts on his socks, suit and underpants. It’s still cold, so he rummages through the chest of draws, in the dark still, and pulls out an indeterminate coloured jumper, turtle neck, with leather patches at the elbows, and wrestles into it, pulling on his jacket over the top. It makes him feel bulky and slow, but he feels he has to do something to stop the descent in to shivery spasms that are threatening to take over. He finally finds his shoes by falling over them, laces them up and walks out of the back door into the tiny garden. Before him lie the undulations of the cliffs and glimpses of a quicksilver and black sea, fading from liquid brilliance into crisp glass-like atmosphere. A light blinks far in the difference, one, then a count of 7 with nothing, then two in quick succession. It repeats exactly and he finds it hypnotic.

Posted by scumkitten at November 12, 2007 8:26 AM

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