He Looked At The Ground And At What Might Have Been
Light sifted dust onto the picture-perfect masterpiece he had painted onto the inside of his eyelids. The hairs on the back of his neck were drenched with the warm humidity of the shower he could not bear to take. He felt the steady flow of blood through his veins and listened to the echo of a city he couldn’t quite remember.
His typewriter lay where he had smashed it on the tiles of his kitchen floor. A void of ink stretched out around it in a halo, draping itself around the manuscript.
He snapped the shower off and treaded softly into the kitchen. The ink continued to spread itself across the floor and he stood and let it wrap and warp itself around his toes. He closed his eyes and tried to force memories of sensation to the surface of his soul.
He remembered,
Glimpses.
Her eyes, tethering themselves to his.
Her mouth, shaping itself, moulding itself and creating words which he could see but not hear.
And he remembered the war, and shouting, and the sound of wine bottles as their glass tightened and broke in the heat.
Someone knocked at the door but he remained in stasis until the sound had passed away. He felt a splinter of glass bite into the sole of his foot. He opened his eyes and looked at the ground. He saw what might have been.
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One Comment
Anonymous
Awesome story dodders