Chill - Snippet from a longer narrative

A short descriptive piece which will become part of a longer narrative in the future. (Hopefully) 

Biting cold, the bitter chill of early February. A time usually reserved for happy faces faces among parents with Valentine's day just around the corner and the recovery from Christmas expenditure, and weight gain, on it's way out. On our way from thirteen May Avenue. I never believed in superstition, but I was starting to think there nigh be something to it. The 'new' car my Mum had just bought for her new job. There was meant to be a heating system but coats were still needed inside even on warmer days. Despite the cold, were you to look towards the skies you might be fooled into thinking that a coat was not a necessity. You would be wrong, mislead and fought by the cold. Finding yourself among the unfortunate many that fall ill in these conditions. We pulled in, still yet to park, never an easy task for Mum but under the conditions she was finding it more difficult that usual. She crept slowly, both of us awaiting in silence to get this done and find out the results. Silence struck. The radio, which had been a great distraction to myself apparently was not having the same effect on my Mum. Stepping out of the car it felt warmer outside than in the car. That thought was removed by the wind which bludgeoned into my face forcing me backwards. Shutting my eyes to make sure they weren't forced into my head. I was then warmed by the arm across my shoulders, I looked up smiling. She was doing the same and probably for the same reason. Not because we were happy but because we both knew that the other needed the reassurance that everything would be okay.

The doors slid open and just as the biting cold removed it's teeth from my neck I was hit. The smell of death, a mix of chicken that has been left for too long and sewage. As soon as I entered I felt weak and ill. My eyes fluttered and began to role up into my head, I almost fell onto the man who entered next to me. Regaining my balance I stood swaying in the entrance, the smell had left and I was enjoying the warmth. A warmth that didn't help the smell which had now returned on my in breath. I almost fell again; blood festering in hidden corners and the mask of overused cleaning product. The more detail of this smell I got only made it worse. I felt more ill entering than I ever did leaving, a horrific irony upon entering a hospital. I held my breath, I never wanted to smell anything again. I couldn't hold it longer, I inhaled, this time through my mouth and now I could taste the putrid odour.

I can't remember much after that, the next thing I knew I was in a wheel chair being taken up in a lift. I don't remember the rest of the journey in the lift, I never did do well in enclosed spaces.

When I finally came round properly, I was entering his private room. The first thing I saw was his arm. I was eleven at the time and beginning to learn more about the world. Fractions, tectonic plates and the rise and fall of Rome. The hardest lesson I learnt that year was that, my Dad wasn't the pillar of strength I saw him as. He wasn't invincible.

Tubes we stuck under his flesh and the beeping from the machines pierced my now alert ears. He had markings all over his arms, the doctor a Dr Shaw, told us that this was so they could see how the swelling on his arm was reacting to the treatment. I checked again. The bright red mass was protruding well over the markings, surely not a good sign. We walked into the room. As the door clicked into place behind use his body shifted. Eyes flickering and his body being jolted into consciousness. Hairs began to stand on end as the cold, blew past his now aware body and the pain again became apparent to him. Mum rushed straight to his side placing a hand on his forehead and looking into his eyes, the corner of his mouth lifted and it wasn't easy for him to do so. I was now stood as the nurse that helped me to the room didn't think it was needed any longer as I was feeling much better, or so I said. I knew I wouldn't be right until I left, it was the same with any medical place.

I stood watching the two heroes of my reduced to tears, I didn't know what to do I just stood and watched. What could I do now? I'm not sure asking Mum and Dad would help in this situation.

Hope you enjoyed let me know what you think 

The Outsider

Short Story based upon an outsider seen somewhere in life.

The Outsider

Staring blankly into what's presented in front of him. This dark figure, stares in the middle of the wall, resolute. He has been doing this for some time, when he began there were people close to him, but now. No-one. “Nacimiento del Gótico” was the name of the painting he was now lost in. Created in 1386 by the Spanish great Alvaro Ramos. Now alone in the centre of one of the greatest art collections in the modern world. He was entranced. How was he allowed to be here at such a time? This thought began to sweep across his mind. Had the staff forgotten him, just as the world had? Well it is easy to forget someone if they never make an impression on you.

His creased whit shirt in much contrast to his cleanly pressed black trousers. This was his uniform, for what job no one was quite sure. The common public assumption was security but no-one ventured to ask, because quite frankly no-one cared. People saw him each day, sitting on the first seat of the bus staring into the distance, a distance which wasn't there.

His hands shook involuntarily as his dark eyes wandered between the frames, searching for reason, not just within the painting but he always found himself searching for some meaning behind what he was doing. As his hand continued to shake he plunged it into his pocket, allowing his fingers to roll over what was inside. A handful of coins, different sizes, shapes and currency, yet all fitting together between his fingers. It interested him how such a global consistency could vary so much across the globe. Within his other pocket he touched the top of a cash bundle, he himself didn't know how much was inside, he knew there were ten notes so it could have been anything between fifty pounds to 500, he knew the man who slipped it to him was British so he had made the assumption of it being pounds, but with the amount of mystery shrouding the suited man who handed him the paper, suit case and cash clip. He followed the instructions written on the now crumpled paper squashed in his breast pocket. Now he was waiting. For what he didn't know.

Footsteps came from the other end of the marbled floor. The sound of the soles echoed through the halls, resonating into the figure's ears and shaking the image before his eyes. Of course not to the naked eye but, to the man who's eyes hadn't moved from it for hours each vibration shuddered the flicks of paint. He was lost, lost in the world of the painting. Showing the creation of the Catedral de la Santa Cruz y Santa Eulalia, the beating heart in the centre of the emerging Catolan nation. It spoke to him, a sole figure un-noticed within a society which was moving faster than the masons could cut the stone.

The lights went out and he was left in the pitch black. Now he was alone, left without the painting and without his newly found guiding light. A scream broke the silence and awoke his eyes, this was a chance for him to be able to stand out and do something. He turned on his heel. Almost slipping, while his shoes were, on the outside shined and polished as if new, but they hid a sole which had lost any sense of grip leading him to almost fall each time he made a turn.

This was the moment he had been waiting for, or at least he thought it was. Prowling the now darkened corridor, he blew into his hands, warming them. The museum grew ever colder and as his breathing became heavier, as the anxiety did upon his back, his breath created clouds of fog infront of his eyes. A flickering exit light around the corner was the only source of light in the pitch black. All the paintings had gone it was him and the dark searching for a scream and a meaning.

He slowed as he arrived at the point where he thought the scream had come from. Of course he couldn't be sure but something told him this was the right place. A murmer from the corner and a squelch from beneath his foot, this must be the place. “Hello?” his weak voice barely made it to the edge of the fog that came with it. A smell broke through the darkness, it was heavy and biological. It smelt to him like the smell a compost bin gets when you don't empty it. “Mr Davis? It's Mark, Mark Claridge?” there was no answer. “I think this is where I'm meant to meet you, I think this is where the man told me to come. I want to help, he said I could help”

The room exploded with light. He was overwhelmed by the sight presented to him, a blood trail from his shoe, still shiney but now claret. It lead to what he assumed to be the source of the scream, she lying dead upon the cold floor. Her face white, as the rest of the room except coming from the back of her skull, what was left of it and not scattered across the floor, blood splattered about half way up the wall accompanied by lumps of grey flesh.

In the corner a man was stood, drips of heavy liquid fell from his finger tips as he emerged from the corner of the now wretching man's eye. “Yes, this is where you are meant to be” his voice was calming yet cold and organised, as if each word came from a script. He continued, “Don't worry Mr Claridge, this is exactly where we want you to be”...

Hope you enjoyed, and let me know what you thought