Dot in the Sky (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dotinthesky) wrote2003-05-08 04:56 pm
dotinthesky) wrote2003-05-08 04:56 pm
Something I wrote today... no title yet
Martha hit the last key on the typewriter. Full stop after the end. The book was finally finished and ready for publication. She had been so consumed with the unravelling of her conclusion, the speed towards the end of her fiction, that no other sound in the room could reach her. She leaned back on her overused office chair and stared at the tiny crack in the wall above the framed photo of herself. The crack in the wall was there for all her times of dissipation. A new unfamiliar sound reached her, from above. Something alive, caught between the ceiling and the hidden pipes.
She rationalised it at first: a mouse which had burrowed itself into a spot where it couldn't escape; a rattling pipe finally moving on its own accord; cockroaches congregating. The noise persisted through each of her fantasies, rasping, deadpan scratches craving release. Whatever it was, it wanted out. She pushed herself away from the desk, rolled her office chair to the cold wall by the door. The sound moved with her, fast. It wanted her.
Away from the desk lamp, the room seemed darker. Night had descended hours earlier, swallowing the silent woods that surrounded the cottage. The noise from the ceiling grew louder away from the lamp's light - urgent. She tried to remember if anyone could be upstairs, someone she had invited over and forgotten about. She didn't want to think about an intruder. The nearest neighbour was 2 miles away. Her agent Tom had called it "Horror Book Haven" when she told him of her wish to retreat into a cottage by Dunadd Hill in Scotland.
'Nobody around to hear you scream,' he had joked, before hanging up.
She had been too world-weary to know that intruders were now safely bound to suburbs, where they had a bigger chance of stealing something worthwhile. This wasn't an intruder, she realised. It was smaller, and caught between floors.
She opened the door as quietly as possible. Through its gap she could see the gloom within the cottage. All the lights were out. Her hands shook as she gently tried to squeeze her way into the living room. A soft thud came from above. The thing was trying to move to the next room as well. Where's the phone? Upstairs, on her bed. And her car keys were in her jacket, also on her bed.
The clock hanging above the television gave the time as 1.32 AM. Not a friendly visitor than. She searched for something to defend herself, a knife, anything sharp. The thing had moved with her into the living room. It rushed to the point just above her head and began gnawing on something. She thought of the choking noises that babies did before they died: it was a sound she knew so well. A gasping, gurgling sound. No screams, nothing intelligible. Just an inversion into the sounds made inside a tiny body that, to her mind, was not human.
She noticed the pile of chopped wood by the fireplace. She had been planning to have it lit when Tom came over on the weekend to celebrate the completion of the novel. Tom didn't know she had had a baby once, as a teenager. Tom didn't know she had suffocated the baby because she knew it was wrong for her to bring into the world a being she could not possibly love. Tom, like everyone else, would not be able to understand what she had done. Her parents certainly hadn't. It was 11 years since she had spoken to them. The noise above her head, though, was breaking the barriers of those banished years. It was eating its way through the plaster.
She grabbed one of the logs and made for the staircase. As soon as her foot touched the first step, the noise stopped. She stood as still as a statue, the image of a frightened woman ascending into more darkness. Her eyes kept losing focus in the room. She dared not switch on the lights. She dared not make herself more visible to whatever could see her through the ceiling. As slow as the ticking of the clock on the wall, she climbed the stairs to the second floor.
Her bedroom door was open, but beyond its frame lay a void she wished were not there. She cursed herself for turning off the light everytime she left a room. She cursed herself for being alone, for choosing to be alone. She had never wanted anyone, not husband or child. From the age of thirteen she knew she wanted to succeed, and it had to be on her own terms. The dark bedroom challenged her with its gaping door.
She took a deep breath and ran into it. She hit the light switch but nothing changed. The gnawing in the ceiling had made sure no lights would fill up the second floor. Her hands were clammy; her knees trembled as she searched in blindness for the bed. She found the edge of her duvet, guided herself to its edge. She spread her arms wide and felt for her jacket, her phone.
In the middle of the bed she touched something small, wet. It began to cry
She rationalised it at first: a mouse which had burrowed itself into a spot where it couldn't escape; a rattling pipe finally moving on its own accord; cockroaches congregating. The noise persisted through each of her fantasies, rasping, deadpan scratches craving release. Whatever it was, it wanted out. She pushed herself away from the desk, rolled her office chair to the cold wall by the door. The sound moved with her, fast. It wanted her.
Away from the desk lamp, the room seemed darker. Night had descended hours earlier, swallowing the silent woods that surrounded the cottage. The noise from the ceiling grew louder away from the lamp's light - urgent. She tried to remember if anyone could be upstairs, someone she had invited over and forgotten about. She didn't want to think about an intruder. The nearest neighbour was 2 miles away. Her agent Tom had called it "Horror Book Haven" when she told him of her wish to retreat into a cottage by Dunadd Hill in Scotland.
'Nobody around to hear you scream,' he had joked, before hanging up.
She had been too world-weary to know that intruders were now safely bound to suburbs, where they had a bigger chance of stealing something worthwhile. This wasn't an intruder, she realised. It was smaller, and caught between floors.
She opened the door as quietly as possible. Through its gap she could see the gloom within the cottage. All the lights were out. Her hands shook as she gently tried to squeeze her way into the living room. A soft thud came from above. The thing was trying to move to the next room as well. Where's the phone? Upstairs, on her bed. And her car keys were in her jacket, also on her bed.
The clock hanging above the television gave the time as 1.32 AM. Not a friendly visitor than. She searched for something to defend herself, a knife, anything sharp. The thing had moved with her into the living room. It rushed to the point just above her head and began gnawing on something. She thought of the choking noises that babies did before they died: it was a sound she knew so well. A gasping, gurgling sound. No screams, nothing intelligible. Just an inversion into the sounds made inside a tiny body that, to her mind, was not human.
She noticed the pile of chopped wood by the fireplace. She had been planning to have it lit when Tom came over on the weekend to celebrate the completion of the novel. Tom didn't know she had had a baby once, as a teenager. Tom didn't know she had suffocated the baby because she knew it was wrong for her to bring into the world a being she could not possibly love. Tom, like everyone else, would not be able to understand what she had done. Her parents certainly hadn't. It was 11 years since she had spoken to them. The noise above her head, though, was breaking the barriers of those banished years. It was eating its way through the plaster.
She grabbed one of the logs and made for the staircase. As soon as her foot touched the first step, the noise stopped. She stood as still as a statue, the image of a frightened woman ascending into more darkness. Her eyes kept losing focus in the room. She dared not switch on the lights. She dared not make herself more visible to whatever could see her through the ceiling. As slow as the ticking of the clock on the wall, she climbed the stairs to the second floor.
Her bedroom door was open, but beyond its frame lay a void she wished were not there. She cursed herself for turning off the light everytime she left a room. She cursed herself for being alone, for choosing to be alone. She had never wanted anyone, not husband or child. From the age of thirteen she knew she wanted to succeed, and it had to be on her own terms. The dark bedroom challenged her with its gaping door.
She took a deep breath and ran into it. She hit the light switch but nothing changed. The gnawing in the ceiling had made sure no lights would fill up the second floor. Her hands were clammy; her knees trembled as she searched in blindness for the bed. She found the edge of her duvet, guided herself to its edge. She spread her arms wide and felt for her jacket, her phone.
In the middle of the bed she touched something small, wet. It began to cry
no subject
that was goooood, must....read.....more!!!
lol
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no subject
:)
more..i want more!
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no subject
I love it, though.
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