Fleeing the Baba Yaga

Rainy Days

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Chapter Three

Rainy Days

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Zayn really struggled to get out of bed. He'd stayed up into the wee hours of the morning finishing a last-minute graphics request. He wouldn't usually spend so many hours on a single project in one go but the client, a man name Terry Fernsby, was one of his best and an overall cheerful man who paid well. It was rare for Terry to ask for something with such a tight turnaround. He'd been very apologetic. Zayn had said he would do his best.

He had gotten started and just hadn't bothered to stop until it was finished. Zayn was pretty happy with it. He sent it off to Terry for a proofing at around three in the morning and collapsed onto his bed for some much-needed sleep. Not even the first rumbles of thunder stirred him. When he woke, it was about ten in the morning and rain was hammering down. It left the whole apartment drenched in darkness.

Zayn sighed, rubbing at his sore eyes. Surely, he could sleep in, just once. It was so dark, and his bed was so very comfortable. He checked his phone blearily. Couple of notifications and emails. Nothing urgent. Terry hadn't even seen the graphics package yet. Everything could wait a bit.

Zayn pulled the covers up a little higher, wiggled back down into his favourite spot and fell easily into a doze. His bed had always been a slight source of amusement to anyone who saw it. It was piled high with pillows of all different shapes and sizes. Zayn had often joked with his therapist that it was probably a good thing he didn't have a partner because at the moment, there wasn't any room in the bed with all the pillows.

Slightly embarrassed by his army of pillows, he had tried to go without them, but this had always resulted in the worst, most uncomfortable nights. Even removing a couple left him oddly restless, with a powerful sensation that something was missing. Dr. Rossell had wondered out loud if maybe the big pillows were a surrogate for the contact of another person. Zayn had tried to laugh, but the sound had gotten stuck in his throat.

For a second, just one, short second, he had a flash of... something. Or maybe it was a someone? He had felt himself shaking, felt himself reaching and someone was there, curled up behind him, trying to protect him. Just as quickly as it had come though, the memory or dream or whatever it was had faded. It was gone like a whisp of smoke from a blown-out candle, leaving only the faintest trace behind.

Zayn dragged himself out of sleep around noon. It was still dark, and the rain was still coming down hard. Yawning, Zayn rolled out of bed and tottered to the bathroom to clean himself up. His only thought was of coffee and something hot to eat. It was a little chilly, so he threw on an extra jumper as he made his way to his little kitchen.

Soon he had his coffee, the scent of it filling the air with something comfortable and warm. Padding to the window, he peered out. It was really coming down out there. The street below was a washed-out mass of grey, occasionally lit up in orange and red by a vehicle's headlights. Today Zayn was very glad he worked from home. He could afford to have a lazy day after the near all-nighter he'd pulled. He should probably get some journalling done.

He pulled open the drawer and paused. Inside was his journal, miscellaneous pens, broken pencils, and other rubbish he hadn't bothered to tidy up. On top of it all was his old pencil case. which was odd because he had long ago decided to stuff the pencil case where he wouldn't be able to see it, right at the back of the drawer. And yet here it was, in pride of place. It sat on top of his journal, looking innocent and pale baby blue. He picked it up and opened it.

There was the usual mess of a child's pencil case. Pencil shavings, a half chewed up eraser, pens that didn't work anymore and lint. There was absolutely nothing extraordinary about this pencil case and yet a thrill of alarm shot up his arm as he held it in his hand. Not for the first time, he wished he could remember something about it. Who had given it to him? A parent? A sibling? He had no memories of either. He jiggled it in his hand, inspecting the contents.