bruises
10-08-2010, 04:01 PM
Hi, before you read it I just want to say sorry if it's no good, I'd love your opinions and critiques and advice if you would be so kind (: I'm taking my English GCSE next year so I kind of want to practise, but it's something I've always wanted to do anyway ^_^ And it's really short because I have a non-existent attention span :')
Memories of Room 13
He returned to room 13 smelling heavily of whiskey and threw his jacket onto the unmade bed and slumped into the worn down armchair by the window. The room was cold but the chair was unusually soft and warm for it's situation, it comforted him and he let himself sink into the tenderness of the fabric and gaze out of the window letting his breath fog up the icy glass. The sky was washed of it's colour and darkening, he sighed and running his rough, nicotine stained fingers through his thinning grey hair he watched as the first droplets of rain heavily tap against the window and streak towards the stone pavements.
He poured a glass of a strong smelling liquid from an obscure bottle by the chair and turned his gaze to the bed. The sheets were crumpled and had lost the sharp, vibrant whiteness they must hav had at some point in time. And the brightest thing about the bed was the red streak of lipstick against the pillow. Her lipstick. The most beautiful thing left in his world was a mark left by the woman who'd held him a hostage to his own lust and disappeared in the night. He would have been unsure of her existence if the vision of her lipstick had not been held so vividly in his mind.
And even though the room was in an advanced state of decay and soon to be of no use to anyone any more, it had beheld the beauty of this woman, for that one night the room had been under a spell and there was no damp on the ceiling, and the wall paper was not peeling off of the walls and tearing, the carpet was not thick with dust. There was colour. For that night, the prospect of a new reason and hope for love for the world excited him. For the briefest of moments in this chapter of his life there was hope. And her name didn't matter to him in the same way his never did, she was his for the night, property of his and only his. She gave him colour. But by dawn it had faded to grey once more.
He moved over to collapse of the bed and helps the sheets to his face and inhaled her hazy memory, intoxicated. Still, he knew what was left of her didn't matter because she was gone now. Everything was gone now and he wondered, was he the only one who had encountered this hotel room in desperate search of an emotion that could so easily be confused for love?
Memories of Room 13
He returned to room 13 smelling heavily of whiskey and threw his jacket onto the unmade bed and slumped into the worn down armchair by the window. The room was cold but the chair was unusually soft and warm for it's situation, it comforted him and he let himself sink into the tenderness of the fabric and gaze out of the window letting his breath fog up the icy glass. The sky was washed of it's colour and darkening, he sighed and running his rough, nicotine stained fingers through his thinning grey hair he watched as the first droplets of rain heavily tap against the window and streak towards the stone pavements.
He poured a glass of a strong smelling liquid from an obscure bottle by the chair and turned his gaze to the bed. The sheets were crumpled and had lost the sharp, vibrant whiteness they must hav had at some point in time. And the brightest thing about the bed was the red streak of lipstick against the pillow. Her lipstick. The most beautiful thing left in his world was a mark left by the woman who'd held him a hostage to his own lust and disappeared in the night. He would have been unsure of her existence if the vision of her lipstick had not been held so vividly in his mind.
And even though the room was in an advanced state of decay and soon to be of no use to anyone any more, it had beheld the beauty of this woman, for that one night the room had been under a spell and there was no damp on the ceiling, and the wall paper was not peeling off of the walls and tearing, the carpet was not thick with dust. There was colour. For that night, the prospect of a new reason and hope for love for the world excited him. For the briefest of moments in this chapter of his life there was hope. And her name didn't matter to him in the same way his never did, she was his for the night, property of his and only his. She gave him colour. But by dawn it had faded to grey once more.
He moved over to collapse of the bed and helps the sheets to his face and inhaled her hazy memory, intoxicated. Still, he knew what was left of her didn't matter because she was gone now. Everything was gone now and he wondered, was he the only one who had encountered this hotel room in desperate search of an emotion that could so easily be confused for love?