the flat, he let his eyes blur on the ceiling, and with his eyes wide open he slipped off into sleep. The sound of a key in the street door awakened him. Feeding time, Black. Heather’s heavy tread came up the stairs and headed toward the kitchen. She arrived at his side without any eye contact. He recognized the scent on her breath. Once his mother had put one, just one, fizzy drop on his tongue, and said, ‘Coca-Cola, but it’s bad for you.’
For the next twenty minutes Heather’s corpulent face hovered over him, silent, efficient, and detached. She left the flat without having spoken a word, her thick shoes clunking dully down the stairs. The click of the street door closing behind her was a good sound. The carefree laughter of small children passing by floated up. A woman scolded. Their sounds faded away. He looked at the clock on the wall. It was 12.30 p.m.
He watched a documentary, but it was a repeat, and it didn’t hold his interest. Visions of death, his own, kept intruding upon his concentration. His mother had taught him that humans reincarnated incessantly, but he had learned from watching the telly that other religions believed differently. He hoped she was right, for he longed for the chance to be returned as a normal human being.
The news came on. Automatically he transferred his focus to it. He had an insatiable curiosity about the world outside his room. Often, he watched the broadcasts put out by all the different channels - BBC, ITV, Channel 4, CNN, Aljazeera, Fox, MSNB, and sometimes even the foreign language channels that he could not understand. After the news he flipped through the channels without finding anything worth watching. The occupants of the tree outside his window, a pair of courting pigeons, were returning. He moved his attention to them. He loved watching them.
He was wondering if he would still be around in spring when their nest was once again filled with noisy chicks, when he experienced a strong fluttering inside his chest. It was something he had never registered in his paralyzed body before and it shocked and frightened him. Was this Death come to snatch him away? His eyes darted to the clock - at least three hours before his mother’s return. He told himself that he was not afraid of dying or what lay beyond, but he must see her one last time. Innocently, he decided to wait for her return before he died. The panic ebbed away and after a while he realized he was not dying, at least, not just yet.
A cookery show came on. Food intrigued him. He watched the presenter bite into a peppermint profiterole, roll her eyes dramatically, and expel a long ‘mmmmmm’. When she could bring herself to speak, she described the experience enthusiastically: delightfully refreshing, elegant, light... In his dreams he was often sitting up and eating, all manner of things - cakes, spaghetti, sandwiches, pizzas, fruit - but he always awakened no wiser about their taste or the sensations of eating. He didn’t know the difference between juicy and chewy.
The winter night descended leaving the room illuminated only by the flickering blue light of the TV. Black eyed the clock: 3.29 p.m. A strange stillness hung in the air, but he was overcome with a sensation of disquiet. He wished again for his mother’s return with the evening paper, for normality. An instinct warned him. Ever since the fluttering. Something was not right.
And he was right.
The TV flickered suddenly and became a silent, blue screen. A deadly quiet filled the room. He listened intently and heard only the blood drumming in his ears - where were the outside sounds? Fearfully his eyes skirted around the room. Inside his head a vibrant, beautiful voice said in perfect English, ‘Don’t be afraid. Friend.’ Then the clear deduction: It cares about me...
He stared in disbelief as dry, black rain poured from the ceiling, and flashing, swirling vortexes and white orbs appeared in it. Within that whirlpool of pulsating energy a
For the next twenty minutes Heather’s corpulent face hovered over him, silent, efficient, and detached. She left the flat without having spoken a word, her thick shoes clunking dully down the stairs. The click of the street door closing behind her was a good sound. The carefree laughter of small children passing by floated up. A woman scolded. Their sounds faded away. He looked at the clock on the wall. It was 12.30 p.m.
He watched a documentary, but it was a repeat, and it didn’t hold his interest. Visions of death, his own, kept intruding upon his concentration. His mother had taught him that humans reincarnated incessantly, but he had learned from watching the telly that other religions believed differently. He hoped she was right, for he longed for the chance to be returned as a normal human being.
The news came on. Automatically he transferred his focus to it. He had an insatiable curiosity about the world outside his room. Often, he watched the broadcasts put out by all the different channels - BBC, ITV, Channel 4, CNN, Aljazeera, Fox, MSNB, and sometimes even the foreign language channels that he could not understand. After the news he flipped through the channels without finding anything worth watching. The occupants of the tree outside his window, a pair of courting pigeons, were returning. He moved his attention to them. He loved watching them.
He was wondering if he would still be around in spring when their nest was once again filled with noisy chicks, when he experienced a strong fluttering inside his chest. It was something he had never registered in his paralyzed body before and it shocked and frightened him. Was this Death come to snatch him away? His eyes darted to the clock - at least three hours before his mother’s return. He told himself that he was not afraid of dying or what lay beyond, but he must see her one last time. Innocently, he decided to wait for her return before he died. The panic ebbed away and after a while he realized he was not dying, at least, not just yet.
A cookery show came on. Food intrigued him. He watched the presenter bite into a peppermint profiterole, roll her eyes dramatically, and expel a long ‘mmmmmm’. When she could bring herself to speak, she described the experience enthusiastically: delightfully refreshing, elegant, light... In his dreams he was often sitting up and eating, all manner of things - cakes, spaghetti, sandwiches, pizzas, fruit - but he always awakened no wiser about their taste or the sensations of eating. He didn’t know the difference between juicy and chewy.
The winter night descended leaving the room illuminated only by the flickering blue light of the TV. Black eyed the clock: 3.29 p.m. A strange stillness hung in the air, but he was overcome with a sensation of disquiet. He wished again for his mother’s return with the evening paper, for normality. An instinct warned him. Ever since the fluttering. Something was not right.
And he was right.
The TV flickered suddenly and became a silent, blue screen. A deadly quiet filled the room. He listened intently and heard only the blood drumming in his ears - where were the outside sounds? Fearfully his eyes skirted around the room. Inside his head a vibrant, beautiful voice said in perfect English, ‘Don’t be afraid. Friend.’ Then the clear deduction: It cares about me...
He stared in disbelief as dry, black rain poured from the ceiling, and flashing, swirling vortexes and white orbs appeared in it. Within that whirlpool of pulsating energy a
Similar Books
