Something is Missing

Posted: August 22, 2011 by writingsprint in Dream Girl, Fantasy, postaday2011, postaweek2011, Writing
Tags: , , , ,

SilhouetteIt was 3:00 in the morning. Tom shed some tears and tried to shake it off. They kept coming while he put mercurchrome and gauze on the cuts on his arm. It had felt real: her grip, the window, falling out into some monster’s throat. It still felt real. His gut wouldn’t unwind either. It knew, even if he didn’t, that he knew that girl.

He turned on a few of the lights, and edged towards the window. Buster, his cat, kept walking in front of him. “I know,” he mumbled. “You’re pissed because I’m keeping you up. Deal with it.” Nothing outside the window except the usual breezes and car noise. He sat in his favorite easy chair and twisted it to face the window. It stared back at him. His ears started to ring with the feeling that he should hear a sound where none was there. The window, or something outside of it, was laughing at him. It wasn’t the girl.

Tom tried to draw some pictures of her. He hoped he would unwind and fall back to sleep. First he sketched her face, when she had first opened her eyes. He could get the eyes right, and the hair. He tried to draw what he felt from the maw behind her. That wouldn’t… it wasn’t solid in his head. A shark’s mouth. A lamprey’s. Claws. A whirlpool.

Buster back arched. He gave an angry rowr his hair stood up and he bounded from Tom’s feet to the bed to the cat bed, on the far side of the room.

Tom shuddered, crunched up the drawing and threw it on the floor. He felt worse, not better.

It was almost four in the morning. He picked up the phone and dialed his boss’ number. “Hi, Nicole. This is Tom. I’m not feeling well, so I’m going to call out sick today. If you need me, call my cell. Thanks.” He flopped back down on his bed and stared up at the ceiling.

After a while of listening to the respirator hiss of his own breathing — not a good sign when you remind yourself of a machine that keeps dead people alive — it occurred to Tom to face his fear. With a safety belt, as it were.

Carefully, he went over to window. He opened it up as far as he could. Tom’s heart pounded. He dragged his easy chair over with his arm, scraping up fur balls in the throw rug, to give him a soft place to fall. Then he sat down on the sill, in the window frame. His legs were half in, half outside the apartment. He held on to the sash with both hands.

If God came along, picked up the building and held it sideways, he would fall and go splat against the building across the street. Tom took deep, shaking breaths, and felt his body go cold. He had never been afraid of falling in his life. He’d done four skydives and adopted his cat from his first jump instructor.

He felt closer to it, whatever it was.

Today’s post was inspired by another prompt from BeKindRewrite. The picture is from Pop Art Machine.

  1. Okay, I’m officially hooked. I hope you keep going with this. There’s something especially gripping about it in short, weekly spurts. Fantastic story flow!


  2. […] The Girl on the Ledge story continues over at WritingSprint […]


  3. […] The Girl on the Ledge story continues over at WritingSprint […]


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