Keep on trucking.
A fascinating experiment, brought to you by Wax Tailor.
Continued from here.
The water on the floor has flowed into the rest of my bedroom, puddles of it on the wooden floor. I can hear the water splashing in from the window onto the bed. My hearing ebbs and flows like the tides in succession. Cars driving by feel so far away only to then be as loud as they would be plowing through the walls of my home or my head. I'm so cold...
I pat myself, I'm wearing a button up shirt, it is soaked to it's non-existent skeleton. My trousers are in a similar state. Something is in my pocket. Thanks to my father, I always have a handkerchief, now it will serve as a temporary bandage. I wrap it around my hand, shivers coursing across my skin like a nest of rats scurrying in every direction.
I crawl from the dim light, searching for something to change into. My legs are weak, but at least I can get my bearings.
It all feels like a dream, everything I touch teases something in the back of my skull, a memory I cannot reach; each item is important to me, I simply know not why. Where are my clothes? The drawers are pulled from their homes, thrown about the room randomly. I pause, the chill in the air cutting me deeply.
The sensation is so painful, so distant, I fall to the floor. Will I die here? On the floor? I cast my vision towards the broken window, I can see the blinking of a sign on the rooftop across the street. The words are blotted out but I can see the woman holding a bottle of something to her lips. I lick my lips, blood?
I groan and mewl like a wounded kitten, reaching out for something, anything. Leather brushes past my fingertips, the suitcase. That is something. Something solid, something containing something, anything.
Continued from here.
The water on the floor has flowed into the rest of my bedroom, puddles of it on the wooden floor. I can hear the water splashing in from the window onto the bed. My hearing ebbs and flows like the tides in succession. Cars driving by feel so far away only to then be as loud as they would be plowing through the walls of my home or my head. I'm so cold...
I pat myself, I'm wearing a button up shirt, it is soaked to it's non-existent skeleton. My trousers are in a similar state. Something is in my pocket. Thanks to my father, I always have a handkerchief, now it will serve as a temporary bandage. I wrap it around my hand, shivers coursing across my skin like a nest of rats scurrying in every direction.
I crawl from the dim light, searching for something to change into. My legs are weak, but at least I can get my bearings.
It all feels like a dream, everything I touch teases something in the back of my skull, a memory I cannot reach; each item is important to me, I simply know not why. Where are my clothes? The drawers are pulled from their homes, thrown about the room randomly. I pause, the chill in the air cutting me deeply.
The sensation is so painful, so distant, I fall to the floor. Will I die here? On the floor? I cast my vision towards the broken window, I can see the blinking of a sign on the rooftop across the street. The words are blotted out but I can see the woman holding a bottle of something to her lips. I lick my lips, blood?
I groan and mewl like a wounded kitten, reaching out for something, anything. Leather brushes past my fingertips, the suitcase. That is something. Something solid, something containing something, anything.