The Midnight Oil

Alexander stuck a match and held it above the wick, but he did not light the lamp. His fingers shook with the aches of overuse as the cold breeze of the night smothered the flame. The smell of honeysuckle dispersed. Brief disappointment knocked him back into the familiar grooves of his study chair. Tangential thoughts attempted to rise to the surface of Alexanders mind, only to be squashed by the weight of deadlines. How late had I stayed up? It's pitch-black outside. Past midnight, surely? Taking the phone out of his pocket he tapped the screen and found it to be 3 am.

8 straight hours. Less than expected, he thought.

Moving the cursor across the document he found what he had written... everything except the last 10 pages. Alexander sank further into his seat, though even he wasn't sure how he'd managed it. Unless he had lost the desire to feed himself next year, he had to submit his book in the next 6 hours. Despite the hanging guillotine of deadlines, Alexander did not worry. He had the Midnight Oil. All he needed was to get the spare matches from the kitchen.

He swerved his seat around to face the studio apartment, dimly light by his computer screen. Infront of him is a bed, made but far from fresh. The sheets dipped into two subtle curves as estranged as it was shallow. He thought about laying down for a bit but no, not when he was this close to completion. He stood up with a chorus of pops and cracks from stiff knees and shoulders. He ignored them. Moving down the hallway, he grazed the sides of the half-painted walls with his knuckles and jerked back expecting a dash of blue paint over his hand. Instead finding the wall as dry as an empty well. Relieved, he trudged on into the kitchen. Smells of take out and dishwashing liquid that normally perfused into the tiny apartment where abnormally absent. Weird. Where pictures of family and his girlfriend Rosie would be, a patchwork of dust and clean rectangular patches on the kitchen bench. Did we get burgled? Was the thought that picked at his brain, only to be smothered when his eyes on the cabinet labelled "Midnight Oil". On the cabinet door, several checked red boxes were ticked for the week. He opened the door and found the match box and a new bottle of oil at the back of the cabinet, hidden behind several empty bottles and squashed boxes. Each bottle had a label which Alex only read once in his life. If he read it tonight, it would have read, "A drop a night gives your block a fright, anymore and life is a bore". He didn't quite understand why, nothing bad has happened since he increased the dosage.

Sitting back into his seat he placed two drops into the lamp and struck another match, a low dosage to get him through the last few pages. The wick caught this time and Alexander smelt the sweet release of honeysuckle once again. The coldness and the dark dropped away. It was him, the screen and the scent.

He thought he felt something, before he came conscience submitted his work. A warmth on his shoulders. A press on his cheek. A whisper... or was it a plea? When Alex returned to normal, he checked his desk and found a letter, "Goodbye my love, I hope you remember me".

Strange, Alex thought.

I normally type my next story ideas.