Counting Heartbeats - for brigits_flame
Title: Counting Heartbeats
Genre: Angst, probably.
Warnings: Not really.
Summary: I miss you. I'm sitting here, waiting for you to call. And I count the time in heartbeats.
A/N: Yes, another brigits_flame entry. *sigh* Seems like that's all I'm doing at the moment. I mean, I like it, and it's really good for my writing, especially the concrit and edits, but...
I blame my lack of a computer - what I really want to do is get on with From Beneath A Burning Sun, my as yet untitled Book Thief fic, my as yet unstarted Constantine/Dark Tower crossover...
But, unfortunately, that relies on me having access to a computer for hours at a time. And maybe I do, in theory, but I feel kind of bad about stealing Mum's computer for all that long - I mean, I'm fairly sure she needs it for more important stuff than my fanfic fixes. But there you go.
This is for the first week in Febuary - the prompt was 'Beat'. I scoured my mind for ideas (I'm not all there at the moment), and eventually came up with this. I'm still not sure about the ending - tell me what you think?
Enjoy!
-----------------
I’m sitting here alone. There’s a cup of coffee cooling rapidly on the table beside me. The snow is falling, whirling in a hurricane of stinging white, and I’m sitting here alone, my hand on the TV remote, and watching the telephone.
One. Two. Three.
I’m waiting alone. The coffee’s cold now, and the snow is lying thick on the ground, inches, feet, I don’t know. What does it matter?
The TV screen has turned to a haze of static. It doesn’t bother me, really. It often does that when it snows, you know. It’s been like that since long before we even met. Damn aerial.
It doesn’t matter, though. The air is cold, the sky is ice-blue, and I’m waiting here alone, hand on the telephone, finding patterns in the static on the screen.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
I’m still here. The coffee in the mug has dried to a crust of brown-black. The sky outside is dark. The moonlight is shining on the snow, casting long blue shadows into the dark room.
The TV’s turned off now, but the little green light is still blinking on the telephone. I’m staring into the semi-darkness, the telephone resting on my lap, and I’m still here. Still waiting here, alone.
Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine. One hundred.
It’s getting cold. The snow is thawing outside, letting the green buds of spring into sight, but the fire went out, and the winter came in. The window is still half-open, but I don’t want to get up and close it. I’ll give it a little longer. Then I’ll do it.
The TV screen still shows nothing but blackness, and the coffee cup next to me has a thin line of cobweb over the top. I watch the spider spin, touch the smooth line of the telephone on my lap, and I know I can wait a bit longer. But it’s getting cold.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine. One thousand. One thousand and one.
I’m lonely. The snow’s been gone a while, but spring can be harsh too, and there are tiny icicles hanging all around my room. A thin silt of dust has gathered in the coffee cup, where the spider made its home, and the television screen is grey now, not even black. The telephone is still clean, though, my hand resting lightly on the reciever. It’s cold, and it’s dark, and I’m lonely. But I’ll keep on waiting, anyway.
One million. One million and one. One million and two.
I count the time in heartbeats. You’ll call soon, I know it. The telephone will ring, and all the darkness will go away. The dead spiders in the coffee cup - I can get up and empty them out. Dust the room. Turn on the TV. Shut the window, turn the heating on, bring it all back. The way it was when you left.
I’ll put the phone down, at last, and I’ll know where we stand.
My heart stopped beating years ago.
But still, I count the time in heartbeats.
One. One. One.
Genre: Angst, probably.
Warnings: Not really.
Summary: I miss you. I'm sitting here, waiting for you to call. And I count the time in heartbeats.
A/N: Yes, another brigits_flame entry. *sigh* Seems like that's all I'm doing at the moment. I mean, I like it, and it's really good for my writing, especially the concrit and edits, but...
I blame my lack of a computer - what I really want to do is get on with From Beneath A Burning Sun, my as yet untitled Book Thief fic, my as yet unstarted Constantine/Dark Tower crossover...
But, unfortunately, that relies on me having access to a computer for hours at a time. And maybe I do, in theory, but I feel kind of bad about stealing Mum's computer for all that long - I mean, I'm fairly sure she needs it for more important stuff than my fanfic fixes. But there you go.
This is for the first week in Febuary - the prompt was 'Beat'. I scoured my mind for ideas (I'm not all there at the moment), and eventually came up with this. I'm still not sure about the ending - tell me what you think?
Enjoy!
-----------------
I’m sitting here alone. There’s a cup of coffee cooling rapidly on the table beside me. The snow is falling, whirling in a hurricane of stinging white, and I’m sitting here alone, my hand on the TV remote, and watching the telephone.
One. Two. Three.
I’m waiting alone. The coffee’s cold now, and the snow is lying thick on the ground, inches, feet, I don’t know. What does it matter?
The TV screen has turned to a haze of static. It doesn’t bother me, really. It often does that when it snows, you know. It’s been like that since long before we even met. Damn aerial.
It doesn’t matter, though. The air is cold, the sky is ice-blue, and I’m waiting here alone, hand on the telephone, finding patterns in the static on the screen.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
I’m still here. The coffee in the mug has dried to a crust of brown-black. The sky outside is dark. The moonlight is shining on the snow, casting long blue shadows into the dark room.
The TV’s turned off now, but the little green light is still blinking on the telephone. I’m staring into the semi-darkness, the telephone resting on my lap, and I’m still here. Still waiting here, alone.
Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine. One hundred.
It’s getting cold. The snow is thawing outside, letting the green buds of spring into sight, but the fire went out, and the winter came in. The window is still half-open, but I don’t want to get up and close it. I’ll give it a little longer. Then I’ll do it.
The TV screen still shows nothing but blackness, and the coffee cup next to me has a thin line of cobweb over the top. I watch the spider spin, touch the smooth line of the telephone on my lap, and I know I can wait a bit longer. But it’s getting cold.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine. One thousand. One thousand and one.
I’m lonely. The snow’s been gone a while, but spring can be harsh too, and there are tiny icicles hanging all around my room. A thin silt of dust has gathered in the coffee cup, where the spider made its home, and the television screen is grey now, not even black. The telephone is still clean, though, my hand resting lightly on the reciever. It’s cold, and it’s dark, and I’m lonely. But I’ll keep on waiting, anyway.
One million. One million and one. One million and two.
I count the time in heartbeats. You’ll call soon, I know it. The telephone will ring, and all the darkness will go away. The dead spiders in the coffee cup - I can get up and empty them out. Dust the room. Turn on the TV. Shut the window, turn the heating on, bring it all back. The way it was when you left.
I’ll put the phone down, at last, and I’ll know where we stand.
My heart stopped beating years ago.
But still, I count the time in heartbeats.
One. One. One.