Status: This is a story for an assignment at college, all feedback would be appreciated.
Things That Move
Things That Move
It was quiet. Too quiet. I leaned an inch towards the windowpane, slickened with condensation and dirt. Rust from decades gone by lay static around the glass, sticky and squeaky, allowing any intruders to be caught in an instant. Looking out, there was nothing. No ruptures in the land, no patches in the grass, no.. nothing. But that blade of grass, that tiny one right there, maybe that moved, swayed with the wind, uprooted from its usual spot in the soil -
No. It did not move. The moss covering the rocks, the strangely angled tree with lumps and bumps, coloured a shy grey - they have not moved. Of course, why would they? They are not alive. They do not simply move like you or I. They cannot speak, cannot breathe. They are not alive.
It’s happening again, I think. The fear encapsulates my body, all over, beginning with my arms and chest until it reaches the very end of my fingertips, the ending and beginning of the physical body. I point, knowing that it can see me, too, and my eyes narrow, staring deeper into the abyss of the land.
My pulse is the only thing I can hear. It knows it, and imitates the noise. Boom-boom, a steady pace, and I think to myself why it isn’t going faster, quickening like people say, why I’m not in flight or fight mode despite the danger that is approaching, why this is happening to me -
It moves. Something moves, outside, and I know it for sure this time. It was that single leaf, yes, the one shaped like the teardrop, yes, exactly like the ones that are on my face - wait, what do you mean, I’m crying?
“Michael. Calm down. Everything’s alright. You’re safe,” a voice says, and for a moment, I believe the leaf is talking to me, taunting my fear, when reality trickles back into my vision. I am no longer in that godforsaken place, reaching out toward the window and the moving nature, but rather, I am sat upon a luxurious sofa. A man sits opposite me, a man whom I now recognise as my therapist, and watches me steadily, his eyes following my every move.
“I’m sorry.” I apologise, recognising the apology as the correct human thing to do in this situation, and the man nods in understanding. He beckons me forward, and I allow him to, following him as he assuredly walks towards two curtains, held together by a black ribbon.
He motions for me to unwrap the ribbon and my hands, still shaky from the fear that continues to course throughout my body, undo the knot, the silk running through my fingers with ease. The untied ribbon unleashes a two windows and I immediately close my eyes, and wrap my arms around my body, protecting myself from what I know is out there.
“It’s okay, Michael. I need you to see - I need you to prove to yourself that nothing is moving. The Earth out there, is still.”
My eyes free themselves open in an instant, almost like his words have possessed me to take control, and I stare. Stare so hard that I start to think my eyes might just burst out of their sockets, stare so hard that the soil and grass and moss and trees begin to blend into one another.
Stare so hard that I swear something moves.
No. It did not move. The moss covering the rocks, the strangely angled tree with lumps and bumps, coloured a shy grey - they have not moved. Of course, why would they? They are not alive. They do not simply move like you or I. They cannot speak, cannot breathe. They are not alive.
It’s happening again, I think. The fear encapsulates my body, all over, beginning with my arms and chest until it reaches the very end of my fingertips, the ending and beginning of the physical body. I point, knowing that it can see me, too, and my eyes narrow, staring deeper into the abyss of the land.
My pulse is the only thing I can hear. It knows it, and imitates the noise. Boom-boom, a steady pace, and I think to myself why it isn’t going faster, quickening like people say, why I’m not in flight or fight mode despite the danger that is approaching, why this is happening to me -
It moves. Something moves, outside, and I know it for sure this time. It was that single leaf, yes, the one shaped like the teardrop, yes, exactly like the ones that are on my face - wait, what do you mean, I’m crying?
“Michael. Calm down. Everything’s alright. You’re safe,” a voice says, and for a moment, I believe the leaf is talking to me, taunting my fear, when reality trickles back into my vision. I am no longer in that godforsaken place, reaching out toward the window and the moving nature, but rather, I am sat upon a luxurious sofa. A man sits opposite me, a man whom I now recognise as my therapist, and watches me steadily, his eyes following my every move.
“I’m sorry.” I apologise, recognising the apology as the correct human thing to do in this situation, and the man nods in understanding. He beckons me forward, and I allow him to, following him as he assuredly walks towards two curtains, held together by a black ribbon.
He motions for me to unwrap the ribbon and my hands, still shaky from the fear that continues to course throughout my body, undo the knot, the silk running through my fingers with ease. The untied ribbon unleashes a two windows and I immediately close my eyes, and wrap my arms around my body, protecting myself from what I know is out there.
“It’s okay, Michael. I need you to see - I need you to prove to yourself that nothing is moving. The Earth out there, is still.”
My eyes free themselves open in an instant, almost like his words have possessed me to take control, and I stare. Stare so hard that I start to think my eyes might just burst out of their sockets, stare so hard that the soil and grass and moss and trees begin to blend into one another.
Stare so hard that I swear something moves.