So I’ve been writing a story for a while. Below is a scene from the story, an early scene. I’d really appreciate if you could take the time to quickly read, it really means a lot. Please tell me what you think, if you can understand the protagonist, whatever feelings you have after reading or whilst reading, Please comment.
Mixed blues and greys all colliding to the centre, but what are they creating?
There’s no light to help me see, only the blues and the greys.
I try to look deeper, I try to find my way through but all I hear is the constant sound of a machine running, an abrupt sound that continues to hum on and on. It belittles the rough footsteps and gasps in the air, it’s familiar. I can’t feel anything tangible, just the constant sound, a buzz whizzing around me. I feel like I could be stung at any moment, if I just reach out I’ll collapse and be left in this hazy place. It could be a cage, some kind of trap, it’s an electric gate. My hands start shaking until they’re violently vibrating, my breaths are getting weaker, my soul starts cutting into my throat, my eyelids get heavier. I see her, I see Thalia, her dark hair layered with cobwebs, her jaw line rough with cuts, I notice a faint light gleaming from behind her arms, her eyes are confused, she sees me, her mouth moves quickly before she disappears, I can’t Hear anymore, I see a haze that slowly gets deeper until there is no blue seeping through, just grey.
I can’t remember when. I’m always searching for when but I can only see bits of what happened, never when.
It’s unfathomable to think that a person could get to such a point where it’s difficult to distinguish their thoughts from insanity to sanity, their memories from imaginary to reality, and their visions from illusions to disillusions. It’s unfathomable to think that a person could go from seeing the sun to only living in the shadows, people always question the darkness but it’s the light that becomes too bright which leads to the shadows, it’s the light people trust until it burns you, burns your vision, your mind, your reality, your soul.
I want to sleep, I feel asleep but sleep is supposed to be nice, calming, appeasing, my sleep is erratic, wayward, endless. I’m waiting for that moment when I’ll wake up to see the blues, the yellows and the soft greys, behind the sharp greys I see now spotting my vision.
I hear a flutter of wings, right at my heart, a flutter of wings.
it’s my soul coming to life, my soul bringing me out of an endless tunnel.
My fingers reach out and clench over a wooden handle, and something softer, cotton, curtains shielding me from the light.
The greys start to disperse, and a whiteness seeps through, the off white colour of the curtains hindering my view of the sky.
There’s a rocking, there’s whispers, there’s shaking, there’s confusion, but no ones screaming, no ones crying. They really have taken us.
The bells have disappeared, everything’s softer, everything’s lighter, almost gentle, but not comfortable.
I pull away at the curtains slightly to see an array of off white cotton coating the narrow walls.
I rub my temples, trying to remember when and how things happened. Trying to remember why.
I never cried, we never cried, just the children.
I tap the window at my side, there are trees outside, autumn leaves skimming into shades of gold and green, the train moves fast but I can’t feel it, everything feels still yet I know everything must be moving.
there’s a soft tug at my curtain, a bony hand clings to it, I peel away the curtain too see small brown eyes staring back at me.
I’m not sure if I’ve seen these eyes before, I probably have, most people have seen most people at home, the small population creates such a community. And pretty much everyone has red hair and brown eyes of some shade, like autumn colours, forever flickering with change.
“We’re safe” a whisper and then nothing.
The eyes disappear behind the white shield they appeared from.
I sit back not really thinking much about the whisper, I’m not even sure if I heard it right and my eyes feel like they’re closing.
I’m thinking about the bells. I used to like the bells, I thought they were so soft, so soothing, a welcoming sort of feel almost. They used to chime in my ears like a beckoning not a calling.
I’m not sure what to think of them now, they took me away from my home, or maybe I took myself away but I’m not sure any of it matters now, I am away from home, I know that much, I’m just unsure why.
When I think of home, I think of it as a place where I was born, a place where I’ve grown up, a place I’ve lived in, I guess simply a place I’ve grown used to. I like home in the sense I like it’s flickering colours, the yellows, the greens, the blues and the oranges, all so colourful and light, but beyond that it’s just a place I’ve grown used to.
It’s still strange to think it was once so different, before the war it was a place so capitalised on media, and wealth that now it seems so humble in comparison.
The ones who outlived the war years ago, often tell stories back home about how they survived it, the war of nations people called it. A war where countries fought for the very thing we all thrive on, survival, and what there is to survive, resources. To think that they divided all their resources up between those victorious and those who had been thwarted, reminds me of animals divided up into predator and prey, fighting for survival, and they’d kill for that survival, and not only that but in the most ferocious ways.
We were thwarted.
They say no one saw it coming even if it was planned no one believed America could be robbed, but we were, we were taken of our wealth and left with our agriculture, left as colonies, a country that is owned, taken from us, controlled in a sense, producing commodities: wheat, steel, oil, coffee beans, and coal, and exporting these goods in order to sustain.
It’s a way of living, a way of sustaining, it’s just a way, but I worry it could be happening again.
I can hear whispers, loud whispers humming outside the curtain, people are talking, actually talking to each other even if it is In a low whisper.
I peel away the curtain once again and look out, I can see shadows printed on the curtain opposite me, two shadowy figures sitting cross legged on the bed, the smaller figure has their head resting on the other’s shoulder.
“Is it for long?” I hear a quiet murmur say, a boy
the taller figure strokes the boy’s hair
“No not for long” she says in a gentle tone, her fingers always running through his curly hair.
“I don’t understand” the boy says in a shaky voice, he sounds young, but not young enough to be seen as a child, perhaps 12 or 13, one of the beginner workers maybe.
“They’re coming for us Harry, were protecting you from this war like how you were protected from one the before, it’s not for long” her voice lowers into a soft hum, she sounds almost bored, like she’s been placating children this whole trip. her fingers run out of his hair, and he sits back onto his bed nodding.
I feel more like a patient now. I sit back into my bed, running my fingers through my own hair and looking at the ceiling quite confused.
How can there be so many gaps in my memory?
It’s like the bells took away my thoughts, they must’ve really made me senseless, I wonder if the people knew about this and that’s why they let us go. I’m not sure anymore, just that something much bigger appears to be going on and so We’re being whisked away because of it. Why does something bigger have to always be going on?
I sleep for a while, I let the light leak into the shadows, I let my mind rest for a while hoping I’ll be able to decipher whatever thoughts I have left soon.
I dream of birds, and I dream of Maxi, I dream of him calling my name, I dream of Sylvia singing to the birds, dreaming of when I used to braid her long hair and she would comb mine.
I dream of silly, normal, real things, things so vivid, I almost believe them to be real.