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Memory 35: Rot
Mar. 10th, 2022 03:22 pmThe walls are plastered with posters for monster movies and cartoons, tilted at odd angles. The comforter on the bed is dark blue, covered in blocky grey robots with wide eyes and pincer hands.
Hurricane is lying on top of it, flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling. His curtains are pulled closed, and the afternoon sun drifts in underneath them, catching dust motes in swirls and eddies.
For a long time, the scene doesn’t change; the ceiling stays the same, for maybe an hour, or two, or four.
A couple of times, he opens his mouth, like he means to say something – closes it again, and doesn’t, in the end.
The little beam of light has disappeared by the time he finally props himself up on one elbow and turns toward the door.
“Ma?” he calls, voice raised so that it will carry down the hall. It’s a much younger voice; it belongs to a child of about ten years. “You awake?”
There’s no answer.
( Continue )
Hurricane is lying on top of it, flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling. His curtains are pulled closed, and the afternoon sun drifts in underneath them, catching dust motes in swirls and eddies.
For a long time, the scene doesn’t change; the ceiling stays the same, for maybe an hour, or two, or four.
A couple of times, he opens his mouth, like he means to say something – closes it again, and doesn’t, in the end.
The little beam of light has disappeared by the time he finally props himself up on one elbow and turns toward the door.
“Ma?” he calls, voice raised so that it will carry down the hall. It’s a much younger voice; it belongs to a child of about ten years. “You awake?”
There’s no answer.
( Continue )
