I was sitting at my computer the other day, I probably should have been working on my novel, but the words just aren’t coming when I think about Bal or Eve, so instead I stared blankly at the screen, the spiteful little cursor blinking fiendishly at me. I put on some music, I’m working my through a music playlist put together by someone else on Spotify (there’s been some good writing tracks!) and this tumbled out of my mind and onto the screen.
The white walls taunt him, the deepening awareness tugging at his heart like the calloused fingers of a guitar player on their well-worn strings. He watches her sleeping, the golden curls placing whispered butterfly kisses upon her forehead. The solidity of sleep pressing itself against her chest, suffocating the pain.
His eyes linger upon the dusty pink lace of her nightie barring his eyes from her feminine curves. The material is tantalizingly thin, offering a glimpse of what is underneath, but coyly keeping her from his eyes. Protecting her from him.
He pushes worry from his face with the expanse of his palm. The tiredness streaks red across the whites of his eyes and stains his skin pallid. A lump grows in his throat, the bulky mass pressing his larynx closed. He swallows the bile that rises into his throat, fighting the visions from his mind. Instead, he falls victim to them.
Sorrow weighs against the back of his head and he studies the flaxen carpet at his feet. He falls into the golden strands of the floor covering, allowing it to swallow him whole. Surrounded by the softness he floats; lightness converging inside of him, pushing the darkness from his limbs, forcing the pain to flee.
He watches as the pain, now red hued, splashes against the golden wool of the carpet around him. Surrounding him. The vivid colour momentarily blinds him. It rushes in towards him, rubbing against his bare flesh; the garnet liquid stains his skin, covering him from head to toe. Painting him a garish and cheery red. He cries.
Tears forge paths through the poppy field of his cheek, distilling the harshness of his sorrow-filled mind. Crimson drops hang languidly upon his lashes, dangling in his vision, clouding the view of her still form upon the bed.
Her eyes are open, the vapid grey irises silently pleading to the room. He watches as her tears trek down her face and fall into the bed beside her. He watches her shudder in agony, the silent sorrow at once, empowering him and dealing a deathblow. He feels his heart crack. Feels the blackness clawing its way back, devouring the colour in his vision.
I’m not entirely sure where I was going with that, but I liked the use of colours.
I wonder if it’s possible to drown in colour?
What do you think is happening in the scene?
Personally, I had two stories in my mind when I re-read it. The first I was thinking that the lady on the bed had miscarried their child, and the man was grieving and not knowing how to help her, being sexually attracted to her, but not wanting to upset her. The second, and probably more likely scenario I have tumbling around inside my head (also the more fun to write I think) is that he’s murdered her and now digesting the aftermath. I could take it into the realm of horror/thriller and have him deal with the body after… perhaps.
Have you had little nuggets of writing appear like this one when you’re least expecting them?