‹ Prequel: Our Secret Place
Status: (2016) Active for the summer!! :)
In Oceans Deep
Warm
The warmth of golden light filters through closed eyelids, change enough to wake but gentle enough to sooth. As her breaths consciously sound in her ears, her heartbeat felt from chest to fingers, a dull throbbing pushes through until it is strong enough to force her body upright and eyelids open.
She sees only white wash. But the white landscape fades to pale yellow walls, detail becoming clearer with every blink, the familiarity calming her. She is in her room, on her bed, the clock to her right saying that it is early morning.
She swings her legs over the side, her head now pounding, stomach growling with hunger, her throat dry with thirst. The glass by her bedside sparkles in morning light; she picks it up and drinks with a fervour so it spills down the side of her lips and drips on the carpet.
Her headache is somewhat lessened but still she cradles her skull, pressing her temple. Feeling the bandage and the soft bruise underneath, she remembers.
She sets the glass down and walks to her window, lifting it up to let fresh air in. The cool rushes in, swirling through the room and thinning the old stuffy feel. From this window she can see the streets below where the people walk and beyond the houses the hills which rise before falling into the sea.
The sea where her sister most likely died. For a second she feels the urge to turn and glance at the desk drawer. Her fingers long to feel the smooth firm card with its thick raised pen strokes. They tremble. But she continues to stare out the window.
She watches people walking by when something catches her eye. A boy in a black hoodie paces in front of her house. His gait is unsteady, his movements indecisive, five steps one way, two the other, ten back again then a turn on the spot. She peers closer recognition sparking in her brain.
Those shoes he wears, matt black with red piping and tongue and shiny zigzag along the side. It hits her like it did before, straight through her chest. Her hands instantly press there feeling the small bruise, the feel of being winded choking her lungs.
She still hangs out the window, gasping, when he looks up. Her panicked eyes are mimicked by his and though she wants to look away she can’t. She is caught in his gaze and he is caught in hers, her shoulders hauling deep breaths, his frozen breathless.
After several minutes she breaks, falling back against the wall, closing her eyes and sinking to the floor. Her head is throbbing again as her body remembers the rush and then the smack, blackness folding over her instantly. Why did he do that?
She wanted to talk to him. She needed to. She grabs her heart and pulls herself up before leaning out the window. She looks for his face to smile and beckon, to try and warm his heart in an attempt to warm her own, but he is not there. A black drawn up hood turns the street corner, black and red shoes follow.
She sees only white wash. But the white landscape fades to pale yellow walls, detail becoming clearer with every blink, the familiarity calming her. She is in her room, on her bed, the clock to her right saying that it is early morning.
She swings her legs over the side, her head now pounding, stomach growling with hunger, her throat dry with thirst. The glass by her bedside sparkles in morning light; she picks it up and drinks with a fervour so it spills down the side of her lips and drips on the carpet.
Her headache is somewhat lessened but still she cradles her skull, pressing her temple. Feeling the bandage and the soft bruise underneath, she remembers.
She sets the glass down and walks to her window, lifting it up to let fresh air in. The cool rushes in, swirling through the room and thinning the old stuffy feel. From this window she can see the streets below where the people walk and beyond the houses the hills which rise before falling into the sea.
The sea where her sister most likely died. For a second she feels the urge to turn and glance at the desk drawer. Her fingers long to feel the smooth firm card with its thick raised pen strokes. They tremble. But she continues to stare out the window.
She watches people walking by when something catches her eye. A boy in a black hoodie paces in front of her house. His gait is unsteady, his movements indecisive, five steps one way, two the other, ten back again then a turn on the spot. She peers closer recognition sparking in her brain.
Those shoes he wears, matt black with red piping and tongue and shiny zigzag along the side. It hits her like it did before, straight through her chest. Her hands instantly press there feeling the small bruise, the feel of being winded choking her lungs.
She still hangs out the window, gasping, when he looks up. Her panicked eyes are mimicked by his and though she wants to look away she can’t. She is caught in his gaze and he is caught in hers, her shoulders hauling deep breaths, his frozen breathless.
After several minutes she breaks, falling back against the wall, closing her eyes and sinking to the floor. Her head is throbbing again as her body remembers the rush and then the smack, blackness folding over her instantly. Why did he do that?
She wanted to talk to him. She needed to. She grabs her heart and pulls herself up before leaning out the window. She looks for his face to smile and beckon, to try and warm his heart in an attempt to warm her own, but he is not there. A black drawn up hood turns the street corner, black and red shoes follow.