A creative writing blog posting creative writing? What is this madness?!
This is the first chapter of a story I have been writing called We Are Young. If anyone has been following this blog for a while then you might remember me posting the first chapter from something called The Evening Sun. This is the same story, however much has changed and I have since re-written the chapter. So don't worry! You're not going to be reading the same thing.
Anyway, on with the show!
All criticisms and comments are welcome :)
CHAPTER ONE
They say the average person lives seventy years.
That's eight-hundred and forty months. Three-thousand, six-hundred and fifty-two
weeks. Twenty-five thousand, six-hundred days.
Half it, you get five-hundred-and-fifty-six
thousand hours of night. Two billion seconds of darkness.
That's a lot of pitch black.
When you're young it seems scary, the darkness. It
knows no bounds and its chill seems to seep into every pore of life and break
it from the inside out. Monsters come alive in its shade and nightmares are
spawned. Children sleep with lights on in the hope that whatever labours their
minds might be just as afraid of the light as they are of the darkness. Parents
are forever hushing their children and whispering words of reassurance to the
minds whose imagination is running wild and is utterly uncontainable.
But as you grow you gain this mutual understanding
with night and take comfort in its embrace. It becomes a type of warmth and you
fall into a dependency upon it; sleeping with ease in the murkiness of the long
hours of night. And then, when your mind has developed and calmed with age,
darkness becomes a friend and provides a strange security you find nowhere else
in life.
This division in beliefs has always perplexed me,
most probably because I'm not familiar with that security. I never made that
leap between beliefs. I'm still afraid of the dark.
The thing is I know it's daft. I can analyse my
thoughts until the most minute detail falls beneath my scrutiny, but nothing
changes when dusk rolls in. Those beautiful sunsets are painful because I know
exactly what's coming. And whether I’m standing at the window or, in my weaker moments,
cowering in the corner with a blanket over myself like a dog afraid of thunder,
I always make sure I see that slow transition from light into darkness, like a
masochistic daily ritual.
I think I do it to make sure it happens. Almost as
if a ridiculous part of my brain believes that one day it will just stop and
there will be no more night, no more darkness, and no more unease. No more
waiting with bated breath as the orange eye lurks along the horizon, staring
and teasing me with its disappearance; as if pointing a finger and snickering
at my distress. I almost hate the sun because of it. Another ridiculous belief,
I know. But I always feel cheated when the day ends; as if we've been sold to
the night before we even have time to ask why.
What's more, I don't even know why I'm scared. I
mentally kick myself every time I lose my breath from that rush of anxiety
because I know that there is no logical explanation for it. I'm not afraid of
monsters. I'm always in my apartment when the night comes and, even though I
live alone, the place is small and comforting, with warm lights that reach
every corner. I know every inch of my flat and I know it's safe, so it's not
that I'm afraid of it being broken into or my being hurt either. Nor I'm not
afraid of being blinded by the darkness because I know that my eyes will adjust
after a while.
With all logical reasoning I'm not afraid. There is
no cause behind the speeding up of my heart and the clamminess of my palms.
With all logical reasoning I'm a normal human being.
But then that's not entire true either. A normal
human being would be able to hold a casual conversation for more than two
seconds. Alas, that is yet another development I failed to fulfil. Still, it's
always been like that. Just like my fear of the dark, my inept social skills
seem to have been in abundance for the majority of my life, since I can't
remember that peaceful, brilliant time before them.
Growing up I never really indulged in the social
expectations of birthday parties or sleepovers, preferring instead to hide away
in a book and not speak unless I had to. People would push me to try and make
friends but, unfortunately, it seems as though eight year olds have much more
important things to do than discuss the dilemmas of Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy,
however much I may have insisted. Not that I minded in the end; the characters
became my friends and the books a solace, which seemed to be absent in other
parts of life. Still to this day I surround myself with printed pages; my flat
cluttered with books spanning all walks of life in our world and those of our
mind.
Glancing around my flat at these towers of books, I
close my latest read. And that’s when I realise. That’s it. The book that lies
between my two palms and my lap was the last book I have that I haven’t read
before.
I put it on the bedside table and kick my legs out
from where they’ve been tucked beneath me all morning, and start desperately
looking along the piles of books that lie scattered throughout my bedroom. A
deflated feeling fills my head as I glance down the titles. Nope, nothing.
I move to the kitchen and do the same with those
piles of literature. However, again, I find no unread book hiding in a tower of
explored stories.
For a split second, I consider having the afternoon
off and buying some more books tomorrow, but my mind is too impatient. It
continuously contemplates the new stories and new worlds that are ready for me
to discover; waiting, dust-ridden and ignored, in the far-reaching shelves of
my favourite bookshop.
The ticking of an old clock that hangs nonchalantly
above my bedroom doorframe slowly becomes over-apparent as stubborn thoughts
fill my head. Each second that clicks by drills through my mind, slowly tapping
at my patience until, finally, it’s knocked too far and it tumbles off the
edge. Before it hits the ground, my keys are in my hand and my front door is
slamming shut.
Outside, the August air holds the pleasant glow of late
summer afternoons. Heat rises from the pavement and warms the soles of my feet
as I walk past the park with its freshly cut grass. Unnecessary memories fill
my head as the scent lingers in my mind, but I close the door on them; refusing
them entry and trying to forget them as I push forwards, away from their
relentlessness.
The sound of the city fills the air as I walk, and
my mind runs away from me for a split second. The scenes materialise before my
eyes; streets buzzing with the usual hoard of business people hurrying along
home; parents with pushchairs, nattering amongst themselves whilst their kids
pull faces at one another or scream blue murder as they drop their toys. I
smile to myself as think over these animated scenes, but I don't venture into
them and play a part; the idea of crowds causing an involuntary shudder to run
down my spine.
A few streets from my apartment, the pavement
curves round and before me lies the short stretch of Calor Avenue. It’s
only about one-hundred metres long or so and is dotted with a few local shops
and cafes, and in its placement it lies nearly off the map. Not in the
geographical sense but in the fact that Calor sits both close enough and
far enough away from the city centre to easily be forgotten: its pavement is
worn and cracked, and the road marks are long gone. The last building on the
left-hand side is my destination.
From the outside, Rowan Books looks
completely abandoned. The old stone of the building is crumbling like wet sand,
held together only it seems by the encroaching ivy that devises intricate
patterns across its walls. However, the second you enter the tired building a
smell of worn books and dusty pages hits you and time becomes all at once
irrelevant, because instantly you become lost to a world of fantasies and
mysteries and epic battles that you have yet to experience. Every time I stand
within the bookshop’s walls I can’t help but run my fingertips down the spines
of the books as I gaze up at them in awe, my mind boggling in amazement at the
millions of other worlds and other lives trapped within their threadbare
covers.
In the shop's cool air, I walk down the aisles of
towering, deep brown bookcases filled to the brim with lives. The bookshop
sells prints from no later than 1960, and thus some of the old covers are so
worn, and so well-loved and well-travelled, that you're completely unable to
read their titles without flipping through the stiff, brittle pages that clump
together and creak as the spine unhinges.
The blinds at the front of the store that are ever
closed get caught by the sun sometime after I start my adventure search, and
the small room turns the colour of warm honey. I amble in a daze, up and down
the aisles, as soft fragments of life fumble lazily in the golden hue. After an
age but only second, I choose a few musky books and head to the till at the
front of the store where Alfred Hall, the elderly owner of the store, stands
behind the counter, watching me over his half-moon glasses as I approach.
When I reach him, he simply says, "Evening,
m'dear." A smile causes his white, wiry moustache to turn up at the ends.
"Evening, Alfred," I reply, returning the
grace.
I pass my books over to him as puts down his own
novel and says, "Let me run them through for you."
Watching him as he does so, I note the usual
Alfred-esque features: a smartly ironed shirt with a thin, knitted waistcoat
over the top, unsteady hands with crooked joints that match the arched and
unnatural shape of his back, and thinning white hair on his head with a couple
of age spots that fill the space it leaves. And as I breathe, I notice his
cologne: all fresh with the scent of pine.
He puts my books into a bag and I say, "Been
busy?"
He shakes his head. "No, just the usual
customers like yourself."
I nod in reply, trying to ignore the horrible
question that always arises my head at times like this: why does he keep the
shop open? Don’t get me wrong, I love this shop. I love the calming way it just
sits and waits for you, and the way it’s always happy when you finally arrive.
I love that if I asked for directions to it no one would know because it’s mine
and Alfred’s and no one else’s for the hours that I escape to it. I love the
way that I can come here and forget everything because here is where other
people’s stories live, not mine.
However, I can’t help but think that the books
which line the shelves must be sought after by collectors, and the reality is
that Alfred isn’t getting any younger. He could sell up and live an easy
retirement, instead of selling his stories at a highly reduced price in an
unknown store.
But he stays. Every day he opens the long forgotten
shop and waits for those few dedicated people who haven’t yet forgotten him.
Thinking over it I become baffled once more, regardless of the fact that I
would never actually want to see the place close. And so in hatred of myself, I
promise over and over and over in my mind that I will never be one of the
people to forget.
He finishes packing the bag of books and holds the
handles out to me. Thanking him, I take them, before walking out of the shop
with Alfred close behind me.
"Alfred…" I say to him when we're stood
by the door - him inside, holding it open, and me on the outside step. I think
about voicing that awful question about the shop, about why it’s still here,
about why he keeps it running when there is no one left to run it for. But I
decide to leave it for today. Instead, I just shrug my shoulder to settle my
bags and say, "Goodbye" nodding a farewell.
He nods back and replies, "Goodnight."
Frowning at the use of word, I turn around as he
shuts the door and clicks the lock into place.
My face instantly goes pale as I realise the need
for Alfred's specifically chosen vocabulary. Before me, I see the typical
hidden darkness that signals the beginning of the end of the day. Feeling panic
beginning to form, I quickly head back down Calor Avenue, keeping my eyes on the
park that lies at its end. I hadn’t realised how long I’d spent in the
bookshop. I'd thought it was earlier; earlier than the cruel daily ritual of
sunset.
It's grand today, no doubt: the ash clouds of
indigo ripple above a city that is basked in a dusty salmon pink light, the
source of which is slowly slipping beneath low, red brick houses like molten
lava. But regardless of the awe I feel when I turn my eyes towards the heavens,
a burning hatred is quick to follow, no matter how nonsensical it may be.
As I'm passing a florist I pick up the pace, my
fear slowly sinking further into me. The emotion almost blinds me and I don't
take in my surroundings, causing me to knock in to a short and balding
middle-aged man, who accidentally sends both me and my bags flying.
"Sorry about that," he immediately
apologises, quickly helping me up.
"No, no, I'm sorry. It was my
fault,” I reply, as we both arch are backs and bend our knees in order to pick
up the contents of my bags.
He quickly stuffs my things back into my bag and, as
he hands it back to me, he nods a goodbye, stands up, and walks away. I
straighten up and start to continue my breathless rush back to the apartment,
when a voice behind me calls out.
“Hey, you. Wait a minute."
Halting, I quickly turn around, assuming I'm the
one the voice is addressing, and when I look I see a boy roughly my age,
standing with crossed arms by the door to the florist shop and staring at the
man who I had just bumped into. Seeing that I’m not the one his attention is
focused on, I begin to turn back. But then I see the panic on the man's face.
"You don't want to do this," says the boy
evenly, and I notice his thick but soft southern-Irish accent.
His face turning a vague purple, the man glances
down the street as if thinking about making a run for it. The boy takes a step
forward, calmly, but with an underlying threat; his eyes steady beneath a blue
baseball cap.
"Just give it to me," he says evenly,
"and I'll forget all about it. But if you try and run, I will catch you
and I will have to go to the police."
Police?
Shocked, I look at the man again and try to figure
out his crime.
The man visibly gulps and I can see him thinking
over his options. It's obvious that if he tried to run the boy would catch him
easily, given the foot and a half between them height-wise. And with regards to
weight the odds were in the boy's favour too as, even though he was quite
broad, he was slim, whereas the man had a visible belly protruding over his
trousers.
The boy extends his hand towards the man, whose
face has developed a definite sheen of sweat. The man looks forward once more
before reaching into his pocket and pulling out the hidden item. Without me
being able to see it, he takes a few steps forward and gives it to the boy, his
hands visibly shaking. Then he glances at me quickly and leaves, walking as
swiftly as he can without looking suspicious and drawing attention to himself.
I watch him shuffle-walk to the end of the street and, before long, he rounds
the corner and is gone.
Not long after his departure I feel an awkwardness
descends over me as I realise that, one, I had stood and watched an event I was
not involved in and, two, I hadn’t even tried to help. Apologetically, I look
at the boy who then steps down off the florist’s step and begins to walk
towards me. Surprised, I glance around to check, but as I turn back I realise I
am indeed the one he's heading towards. He stops in front of me, looking
slightly amused.
Cocking his head to the side, he says "Don't
know what he just did, d'you?"
I shake my head. He raises his hand, the one the
man had placed the item into, and says, "Here." And as I look down
into his palm I see my coin purse, slightly misshaped from being hastily shoved
into a pocket. I gasp and look back down the road after the man, though I know
he's long gone.
"But…" I trail off, looking at my purse
again.
"Took it when he was helping you put your
things back in your bag. I saw from inside the shop,” he says, gesturing behind
him with a thumb.
My mind quickly starts to go over the memory of
bumping into the man, trying to see if I'd noticed anything but, of course, I
hadn't. It’d happened in a flash and the only recollection I had was of him
putting my things back into my bag, and then handing the bag to me. No matter
how many times I go over it in my head, my memories stay the same. A
realisation forms in my mind as it dawns on me that if the boy hadn’t been
there, I would have had my purse stolen.
I take it from his hand, put it in my bag, and look
up at him, gratitude awash on my face.
"Th...Thank you," I manage to say, my
mind still whirling.
"Ah, don't mention it.” He smiles down at me.
I turn away again, frowning as I think.
“Hey…y’alright?” I look back at him, and see an
expression of worry stamped on his face.
He laughs and his expression loosens up and begins
to disappear. “Stupid question given what’s just happened. Y’just seemed a bit
quiet, so I figured I’d ask. Forget I said anything.” He smiles at me.
I quickly pull my face out of a frown. “No, no, not
at all. I’m just…shocked, I suppose. And surprised. I hadn’t noticed anything.
And then…” My mind boggles and I don’t finish the sentence.
“Yeah, I understand,” he replies. “But, if it makes
y’feel any better, I reckon it was only a spur of the moment thing.” I look up
at him, confused, and he continues. “I reckon when he saw your purse he just
took his chance and ran with it. Don’t think he’d even fully convinced himself
yet, so I don’t reckon anything would’ve gone down.”
I nod and look away. “Oh,” I say, and instantly
regret it as it makes me seem dim and unfazed. “I mean, that’s good,” I
rephrase quickly, trying to cover up my initial reply.
He laughs again. “Yeah, it’s good.”
Looking up at him, I expect a pitying or jesting
look, but instead find a smiling face, all open and honest.
Dusting his compost-smeared palms off on his cream
apron, he says, “Rian, by the way,” and raises a hand.
I hesitate at first but then I take it in my own.
“Cynthia,” I say with a small nod.
He lets go and walks over to the empty display
buckets outside the shop. Turning back to look at me, he says, “Need to take
these in before it gets dark, but you’re welcome to wait if y’want.”
Before it gets dark…?
I turn and look at the sunset. Without my
realising, the majority of light had slowly been drained from all around us,
causing the street light behind me to turn on as ebony slowly slunk through the
roads. A small part deep within my chest instantly becomes hollow as my throat
goes dry and starts to close up. I turn back and firmly shake my head, panic
quickly bubbling in my brain. Rian’s expression dampens slightly, and I
immediately feel bad. He just doesn’t know.
“No, it’s not that. I...I just need to get home,” I
try to clarify, my voice becoming hoarse.
Rian nods, and then suddenly turns and disappears
into the shop, calling back to say, “Wait there a sec!”
I begin to shuffle my feet, nerves slowly getting
the better of me, as I glance back at the minute slither of the pink sky which
remains visible above the rooftops. A few seconds later Rian returns and hands
me a business card of the florist. “Here, so you don’t forget to come back.” He
smiles.
I nod, and quickly put it in my handbag, my fingers
having trouble with the zipper as I begin to shake. “Thanks…I won’t.” Turning
swiftly, I walk away.
“G’bye! See y’around sometime, maybe?” he calls to
me.
I look back and nod at him, distracted. “Yes, maybe.”
Then, turning back, I hurry to the end of the
street, before running to my flat as soon as I’m around the corner and out of
Rian’s line of sight. My feet pound on the stairs up to my flat like the
slamming of my heart in my chest, so strong I fear for the ribs which trap it
inside my body.
I struggle with the lock but as soon as I’m in my
flat I slam the door closed behind me and switch on the light. My legs give way
and the ground is suddenly much closer as I collapse onto the floor. Ignoring
my bags and their contents scattered on the carpet like the remnants of a
broken cocoon, I lean against door and close my eyes, my chest heaving as I
gulp in shaky air.
