crossmyheartandhope (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
crossmyheartandhope) wrote2021-01-12 08:50 pm
crossmyheartandhope) wrote2021-01-12 08:50 pm
Entry tags:
Memory 28: Clock
The clock says 2:34am when the siren goes off.
Hurricane knows, because he's awake staring at it. It's the only light on in his room, the square red numbers steady and solid, and at first he thinks the siren is part of a dream – that maybe he’s finally started to drift off.
But it goes on and on, high and shrill and shrieking, and eventually it occurs to Hurricane, with a distant sort of horror, that maybe it's real. Maybe it's happening again.
He didn't get the siren, last time. No one knew it was coming.
But now that shrill, wordless sound drills into his ears, and his heart is slamming in his chest. He stumbles from the bed, off-balance – not steady on the new prosthesis yet – and his steps lurch to the right, the weight of his metal leg making him awkward.
"Ma?" says Hurricane.
He gropes in pitch black for the lightswitch to his room – turns it on.
Then he thinks of his window, covered only by blinds and flimsy curtains, and the way that light will look from the outside, a square of brilliant gold in a darkened building.
The anxiety that grips him is so intense it nears nausea. He reaches with shaking fingers and turns out the light again – lurches into the hallway.
"Ma?" says Hurricane again, voice pitching up in panic.
He stumbles to her room in pitch black – gropes for the doorknob.
Inside, he can't see anything except for the lights beyond her window, the distant glow of other people doing other things, somewhere out in the rest of the city. The room smells like alcohol and old sweat; it smells like the sharp pine sol scent of gin.
"C'mon, Ma," says Hurricane. "You gotta get up."
She doesn't move. He can't even pick her out among the other lumps on the bed – rumpled blankets.
He turns on the light.
The room is austere – would at one point have been minimalist and sleek. Now it's a wreck. The covers on the bed are a mess, and clothing has spilled out of the large mirrored closet doors and onto the floor.
The bedside table holds a picture frame, lying flat so that the picture faces down. There are three empty bottles of gin, and seven empty glasses, and a plate with with the grilled cheese sandwich Hurricane made for her yesterday afternoon still on it, completely untouched.
Hurricane's mother is lying on her stomach on top of the comforter.
"Ma," says Hurricane, voice shaking. "Please."
She still doesn't move until he gets an arm around her and levers her up – doesn't move until she makes a sound that's sodden with sleep and tries to push him away.
He's a boy of ten years old – not especially broad, or especially strong – but he slings her arm over his shoulder anyway, trying to pull her to her feet.
"What's that noise?" says Hurricane’s mother, words indistinct around the edges, the way they get when she's been drinking.
"The sirens," says Hurricane. "So please, you gotta – we gotta go."
He's crying, now. He doesn’t know when he started.
It feels like it takes a hundred years, for his mother to reach out for the bedside table and grope for her glasses, sliding them onto her face.
By the time they reach the living room and he fumbles open the door of the apartment, the clock on the wall reads 2:38am.
Hurricane knows, because he's awake staring at it. It's the only light on in his room, the square red numbers steady and solid, and at first he thinks the siren is part of a dream – that maybe he’s finally started to drift off.
But it goes on and on, high and shrill and shrieking, and eventually it occurs to Hurricane, with a distant sort of horror, that maybe it's real. Maybe it's happening again.
He didn't get the siren, last time. No one knew it was coming.
But now that shrill, wordless sound drills into his ears, and his heart is slamming in his chest. He stumbles from the bed, off-balance – not steady on the new prosthesis yet – and his steps lurch to the right, the weight of his metal leg making him awkward.
"Ma?" says Hurricane.
He gropes in pitch black for the lightswitch to his room – turns it on.
Then he thinks of his window, covered only by blinds and flimsy curtains, and the way that light will look from the outside, a square of brilliant gold in a darkened building.
The anxiety that grips him is so intense it nears nausea. He reaches with shaking fingers and turns out the light again – lurches into the hallway.
"Ma?" says Hurricane again, voice pitching up in panic.
He stumbles to her room in pitch black – gropes for the doorknob.
Inside, he can't see anything except for the lights beyond her window, the distant glow of other people doing other things, somewhere out in the rest of the city. The room smells like alcohol and old sweat; it smells like the sharp pine sol scent of gin.
"C'mon, Ma," says Hurricane. "You gotta get up."
She doesn't move. He can't even pick her out among the other lumps on the bed – rumpled blankets.
He turns on the light.
The room is austere – would at one point have been minimalist and sleek. Now it's a wreck. The covers on the bed are a mess, and clothing has spilled out of the large mirrored closet doors and onto the floor.
The bedside table holds a picture frame, lying flat so that the picture faces down. There are three empty bottles of gin, and seven empty glasses, and a plate with with the grilled cheese sandwich Hurricane made for her yesterday afternoon still on it, completely untouched.
Hurricane's mother is lying on her stomach on top of the comforter.
"Ma," says Hurricane, voice shaking. "Please."
She still doesn't move until he gets an arm around her and levers her up – doesn't move until she makes a sound that's sodden with sleep and tries to push him away.
He's a boy of ten years old – not especially broad, or especially strong – but he slings her arm over his shoulder anyway, trying to pull her to her feet.
"What's that noise?" says Hurricane’s mother, words indistinct around the edges, the way they get when she's been drinking.
"The sirens," says Hurricane. "So please, you gotta – we gotta go."
He's crying, now. He doesn’t know when he started.
It feels like it takes a hundred years, for his mother to reach out for the bedside table and grope for her glasses, sliding them onto her face.
By the time they reach the living room and he fumbles open the door of the apartment, the clock on the wall reads 2:38am.