Delectable (Sinclair Bryant)

Running Up That Hill

Sinclair woke in the apartment he had been living in for the past four months. A temporary abode for him to settle the affairs of his life in England, ready to embark on the next chapter of his life.

He didn't move, just stared at the smooth white ceiling above him, listening to the waking street below.

It had taken a period of adjustment to live in a built up area again. The traffic, and sounds of sirens at all hours of the night mingled with drunken folks enjoying their lives. On nights he couldn't sleep, he would sit out on the balcony and watch them cheer and sing; sometimes fall over, laughing with their mates. Once the night died down, he would be falsely entranced at the vast expanse of the city's bright, sterile bulbs; artificial stars amongst the buildings, polluting and robbing the sky of it's true magnificence. Their mockery reflected in his eyes, giving light where light no longer lived.

Leaving the place he called home for years had pushed him to give up the fakery in his life. He sold the house, the flashy possessions and the even flashier vintage car. They meant nothing, and the joy he thought that they gave him, had lost it's appeal. He had simply stopped trying to fill the gaps with things.

Now, Sinclair desperately wanted something meaningful, something real and he thought that he had begun to find that in Sian. And though he had turned his back, he missed her. Every day. It was the little things; the smell of her shampoo, and the smile he'd receive when he brought her a morning cup of tea. The way she was always cold, so would be snug against him all night. How she'd share any food, except potatoes. 

Could it have all been a lie? Really? Sinclair asked himself as he continued his staring match with the ceiling. It wasn't the first time he'd asked it either.

Blinking the last of the remnants of last night's awful sleep from his eyes, he rubbed his tanned hand down his face. It ached as he did so, the bruising from the officer's punch had slowly been spreading, resulting in a black eye and an extremely sensitive nose. He was lucky it hadn't broken.

When he had returned to his apartment after the fight with Sian, he stripped himself down and discarded his clothes in the bin. Nothing from the day could be salvaged. He showered, washing off the feeling of shame but he couldn't wash away the look of horror on Sian's face, the way she had pushed him away. He tried desperately to make sense of it but he now realised he couldn't do that alone, he needed her help. But if nothing could be salvaged, how would he do it? She probably never wanted to see him again, he told himself, as the falling water masked the tears that seeped from his swollen eyes.

Ever since, he had been stalling, too scared to see her again, but he told himself today was the day. He couldn't leave with that being their last words to each other.

The rush of boldness inside of him didn't match his body when he mustered enough will to get himself out of bed. Sinclair moved around his apartment with lethargy, the thrumming of his veins and the sickening nerves inside of him proving difficult to balance. Eating was out of the question, unheard of for Sinclair, but his stomach lurched at the thought of breakfast - well, brunch by the time he had got out of bed.

The rest of the morning had to be taken up with phonecalls and paperwork. Leaving the country wasn't a simple task. Once the last document was signed, he sat back in his chair and sighed, but it wasn't in relief.

By the time he left his apartment at 2.38, the sun was high above the tall buildings, scorching everyone below it. Sinclair slipped on his sunglasses far more gently than he normally would; they shielded his eyes from the rays and his bruises from the world.

Slinking to his car, already feeling too hot, he ducked in and settled himself in the driver's seat. He immediately flicked on the blowers to full, dousing himself in the breeze.