Forever Changed (Completed first draft for NaNoWriMo 2017)

Days five and six - chapter four

Chapter four

A block of sound squeezes out from the house, I hear the sounds like toothpaste from a tube. They were slower to close the door this time. My door swings back soundlessly. 'New hinges make for a good clean glide.' I sigh and watch small clouds escape from my mouth. It was going to be a long night.

No point in switching on the light. I try out the chair and it sways like a drunken sailor. I feel aggrieved for all sailors. I know now why she sat on the bed. I try to remember her face. Why are faces so goddam difficult to remember? Pulling out my bag and reaching into its contents I pull out my phone and switch it on. I use the selfie option to stare at my reflection.

The shape of my face is different. It's a pity I didn't develop the angular chiselled look before, with dark glasses and some stubble I could look good on the cover of a magazine. When was the last time I actually studied my face? Reflected on what I'd become? Wasn't that the point of the charade, to be someone different?

Scoffing paste sandwiches with the boys from my class had been the point. They gave me stability, they understood that behind the sarcasm and arrogance I was just lonely. Being in a band wasn't something I particularly wanted but the new persona I created did. He loved the disappearing act that the drugs helped him to achieve; and the money, he liked beautiful tactile things. And the sex, he loved the closeness that it gave him.

Benjamin was scared of that face staring back from the mirror. That persona had become more real than himself and then what to do? Benjamin had almost consciously released the reins. I coughed.

"Yeh well, I should have gone to therapy. This was rather an extreme way to shake him off." I shut down the phone.

I took off my boots and put my thick designer coat, wool and cashmere blend, open on top of my quilt and blankets. Climbing in the bed, the sheets felt damp. I curled up hard against the wooden wall and ate my cold bread, cheese and a single slice of home cooked ham. At the bottom in a small plastic container was a mince pie; it looked homemade too.

I stared at the mince pie's slightly squashed shape. The edges were broken, falling in upon the centre. I tried to imagine it warm with cream. Did I have a memory that I could access? I knew I didn't.

Occasionally, I could hear bursts of music and laughter. I turned kneeling on the bed to look expectantly through the plastic window they had enlarged in the wooden wall. Even the dead had basic requirements for their stasis existence and access to light was one of them. Apparently a minimum temperature wasn't.

A lone light blinked at an upper window that I assumed was a bedroom. I studied the pattern of the light disappearing. Someone was pacing, on the way across the window they blocked out the light, which was coming from a table lamp. Mrs McMahon had probably completed her token celebration. I counted the imagined steps. "My world was just seven steps," I thought that a good start for a lyric.

Climbing out of bed and opening the box, I unzipped the end of the bag and pulled out the fancy notebook I had bought with no intention to sully with writing.

In this world I would have to use it, and even if it was thick paper with fewer pages. I would have to write small. I watched the light disappear and re-appear and knew that there were more than seven steps but I could change that later. My hand hovered waiting, I could modify it later. Yes, this was something I had control over.

There was a clatter of cutlery and I jumped. Not now, I didn't want the memory now. I had found a way to hide. I had a book, I could write lyrics; I could find my music again. Not now. I had learnt the hard way that sometimes you just have to let them in, fighting is useless.