BetweenTheBars
02-28-2009, 11:49 AM
(Frost is a very vague title, I havn't really got one)
If a man falls in an alley, does he make a sound?
Eyes open, flicker. Close. Open, and again. Through the haze, an ache. Pain, sharp and now throbbing, asserting itself like an ice cold shard through the consciousness. Slipping – no! – slipping again now…..
*****
A man leaves his work. Says not a word to the receptionist, her wary smile rejected, he ghosts through the revolving doors to blend into the post-office crowds. He is a chameleon – not gaudy and loud but his greys and briefcase slide effortlessly into the subconscious background. He attracts the eye no more than one blade of grass does among a field, and indeed at the moment is no more sentient, following the same daily route that he does day after day, week after week. His thoughts amble along through a glade of stocks, shares and figures, as his half hearted attempts to decipher the days work falter under a veil of tedium. An interruption, as a loud voice calls out in a thick cockney accent, the rounded vowels clanking in to place as he heralds the bargain that is the paper he is paid to sell. The man surfaces, for a second, enough to mutter a muted refusal, then sinks below the ebb and flow of his thought, and his consciousness, and the crowd, are intermingled as one.
*****
Now, whooshing like a vast wind, roaring through his fragile head. Tearing, buffeting - warm, regular, his breaths fade back to their normal level. Blood…..why is there blood. A knife perhaps – yes. He remembers a knife now, a flash of silver catching the light as it plunges in…deeper…..
Always, the pain; searing, burning, branding.
*****
Steps take him further, closer to home, into the areas of the city mentally classified as “rough”. Not a good place for the kids to grow up, dear. Wouldn’t you be happy in the countryside, darling? A woman tugs at his arm, gently, insistently. He stops, looks at her with sad eyes. She slides her hand up his arm, and moves closer. He opens his mouth to speak, but it is dry from lack of use. A breath comes out instead, a gasp sending steam billowing into the night. She is closer now, too close. Her breath flows over his face and he steps back. Opens his mouth again, not a reciprocation of the embrace but a cry out. Wife and two kids, wife and two kids, stop! He draws away slowly, her breath now chilling his pinched face. He looks into her face for one last second, and then pulls away completely, stalking off into the encroaching darkness.
The buildings are like walls, suffocating him.
*****
Awake now, he sits, contemplating. The pain, once a conflagration, now smoulders gently, as he takes in his surroundings. He knew, of course, that he was in a valley. Vall – alley? An alley….he was in an alley. Yes! An alley, his head slumped against a plastic bin, his hand lying limply in a pile of dead leaves and his feet resting against the opposite wall. They could be a mile away to him for all the difference it made. He can no more get up and touch his feet, or move them, than he could conjure up cup of tea out of thin air. He laughs at the absurdity, the bitter painful absurdity, of it all. It is a mad, grating laugh, and tears run down his face as he is convulsed by a soul wrenching paroxysm of grief and mirth combined. Suddenly he stops, as if by a switch, self conscious despite everything. He wondered if anyone had seen him, how embarrassed he would be if his wife were to walk past and see him in such convulsions, bereft of both sanity and dignity. Not that it mattered now, nothing mattered, yet he still felt a pang of sorrow of the life he was in all probability leaving. He cast his thoughts back, dreaming of happier days.
He is in the park now, the grass littered with brown leaves blown down from the grove of trees flanking the path. It is winter, but he is here anyway, a ball at his feet as his boy squeals in delight. He flicks it up, half remembered football skills guiding his feet, leaden with cold. His face was freezing too, and yet his features were creased with a bright smile as he flashes a grin at the boy, now doing kicks up of his own. A woman, now, wandering across the field, arms crossed and slight frame wrapped tightly by a woollen coat. He waves, and she waves back, and as he looks away, a ball hits his leg. He falls on the floor, in mock pain, and the boy, his son, runs ups and dives on to him. The two roll over, and he feels hard ground under him. His limbs slow down and lock, and his head knocks against unseen objects. He looks up at his boy in alarm but he is gone, replaced by an empty void. He turns frantically, looking round, shouting his boy’s name. Searching in the darkness for his son, his hands grate against the tarmac, grinding the leaves into the cold, lifeless floor of the alley. His head twitches and rolls, half remembered visions and memories flowing through him. We cannot choose how we die, a half remembered voice tells him, but we can choose how we live.
A noise alerts him. He looks up, sees a man pass the top of the alley. He slows as he passes, his briefcase held rigid to his side. Then a dark figure, behind him, smashes him to the floor. Another two push in, aiming kicks at the prone figure. They force his arms open and tear away his briefcase, scattering the papers within. They fly in the air and for a moment they fall, on their own undisturbed paths, to the ground. The figures look at each other in dismay, the beating forgotten and only the lack of money twisting their features into expressions of disappointment – and hate. They turn away in disgust, and almost as an afterthought, one slices down a blade into the chest of them man. He lets out an involuntary moan, a last call of defiance, as the figures flee into the streets. He looks towards them, his neck twisting, then he begins to drag himself along the filthy floor. His fingernails scrape on the impervious wall, and he attempts to pull himself up. He fails, and slumps down to rest, with his back to the wall and his feet against the opposite.
He feels the grass under his back, and the frost in the air.
He dreams.
“Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while yet we live”
If a man falls in an alley, does he make a sound?
Eyes open, flicker. Close. Open, and again. Through the haze, an ache. Pain, sharp and now throbbing, asserting itself like an ice cold shard through the consciousness. Slipping – no! – slipping again now…..
*****
A man leaves his work. Says not a word to the receptionist, her wary smile rejected, he ghosts through the revolving doors to blend into the post-office crowds. He is a chameleon – not gaudy and loud but his greys and briefcase slide effortlessly into the subconscious background. He attracts the eye no more than one blade of grass does among a field, and indeed at the moment is no more sentient, following the same daily route that he does day after day, week after week. His thoughts amble along through a glade of stocks, shares and figures, as his half hearted attempts to decipher the days work falter under a veil of tedium. An interruption, as a loud voice calls out in a thick cockney accent, the rounded vowels clanking in to place as he heralds the bargain that is the paper he is paid to sell. The man surfaces, for a second, enough to mutter a muted refusal, then sinks below the ebb and flow of his thought, and his consciousness, and the crowd, are intermingled as one.
*****
Now, whooshing like a vast wind, roaring through his fragile head. Tearing, buffeting - warm, regular, his breaths fade back to their normal level. Blood…..why is there blood. A knife perhaps – yes. He remembers a knife now, a flash of silver catching the light as it plunges in…deeper…..
Always, the pain; searing, burning, branding.
*****
Steps take him further, closer to home, into the areas of the city mentally classified as “rough”. Not a good place for the kids to grow up, dear. Wouldn’t you be happy in the countryside, darling? A woman tugs at his arm, gently, insistently. He stops, looks at her with sad eyes. She slides her hand up his arm, and moves closer. He opens his mouth to speak, but it is dry from lack of use. A breath comes out instead, a gasp sending steam billowing into the night. She is closer now, too close. Her breath flows over his face and he steps back. Opens his mouth again, not a reciprocation of the embrace but a cry out. Wife and two kids, wife and two kids, stop! He draws away slowly, her breath now chilling his pinched face. He looks into her face for one last second, and then pulls away completely, stalking off into the encroaching darkness.
The buildings are like walls, suffocating him.
*****
Awake now, he sits, contemplating. The pain, once a conflagration, now smoulders gently, as he takes in his surroundings. He knew, of course, that he was in a valley. Vall – alley? An alley….he was in an alley. Yes! An alley, his head slumped against a plastic bin, his hand lying limply in a pile of dead leaves and his feet resting against the opposite wall. They could be a mile away to him for all the difference it made. He can no more get up and touch his feet, or move them, than he could conjure up cup of tea out of thin air. He laughs at the absurdity, the bitter painful absurdity, of it all. It is a mad, grating laugh, and tears run down his face as he is convulsed by a soul wrenching paroxysm of grief and mirth combined. Suddenly he stops, as if by a switch, self conscious despite everything. He wondered if anyone had seen him, how embarrassed he would be if his wife were to walk past and see him in such convulsions, bereft of both sanity and dignity. Not that it mattered now, nothing mattered, yet he still felt a pang of sorrow of the life he was in all probability leaving. He cast his thoughts back, dreaming of happier days.
He is in the park now, the grass littered with brown leaves blown down from the grove of trees flanking the path. It is winter, but he is here anyway, a ball at his feet as his boy squeals in delight. He flicks it up, half remembered football skills guiding his feet, leaden with cold. His face was freezing too, and yet his features were creased with a bright smile as he flashes a grin at the boy, now doing kicks up of his own. A woman, now, wandering across the field, arms crossed and slight frame wrapped tightly by a woollen coat. He waves, and she waves back, and as he looks away, a ball hits his leg. He falls on the floor, in mock pain, and the boy, his son, runs ups and dives on to him. The two roll over, and he feels hard ground under him. His limbs slow down and lock, and his head knocks against unseen objects. He looks up at his boy in alarm but he is gone, replaced by an empty void. He turns frantically, looking round, shouting his boy’s name. Searching in the darkness for his son, his hands grate against the tarmac, grinding the leaves into the cold, lifeless floor of the alley. His head twitches and rolls, half remembered visions and memories flowing through him. We cannot choose how we die, a half remembered voice tells him, but we can choose how we live.
A noise alerts him. He looks up, sees a man pass the top of the alley. He slows as he passes, his briefcase held rigid to his side. Then a dark figure, behind him, smashes him to the floor. Another two push in, aiming kicks at the prone figure. They force his arms open and tear away his briefcase, scattering the papers within. They fly in the air and for a moment they fall, on their own undisturbed paths, to the ground. The figures look at each other in dismay, the beating forgotten and only the lack of money twisting their features into expressions of disappointment – and hate. They turn away in disgust, and almost as an afterthought, one slices down a blade into the chest of them man. He lets out an involuntary moan, a last call of defiance, as the figures flee into the streets. He looks towards them, his neck twisting, then he begins to drag himself along the filthy floor. His fingernails scrape on the impervious wall, and he attempts to pull himself up. He fails, and slumps down to rest, with his back to the wall and his feet against the opposite.
He feels the grass under his back, and the frost in the air.
He dreams.
“Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while yet we live”