Drabble 001
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He turned over again in an exaggerated motion, and the rustling of the sheets seemed to echo against the walls. Propping himself up on an elbow he fluffed his pillow, grabbing the spot where his head had been with a fist and shaking it roughly before plopping it back down. He let himself fall face first back into it, but nothing had changed. He wasn’t any more comfortable.
He sighed deeply, turning back to his side. The light of a full moon gleamed through the window at his back, and fell upon the pristine blanket of the empty bed next to him. It wasn’t right. That bed hadn’t been made in over a year and there it was staring at him, pillow sham smooth and sheets neatly tucked in on three sides.
The whole room was almost as empty as that bed. Books and clothes were packed in boxes in the hall... and that hall was even emptier. The doors that lead off of it were all open, and the air seemed stale and unmoving. The entire house was still, except for his anxiously wiggling feet under the covers, and the uneasy rise and fall of his chest.
Why? It wasn’t fair. He had prayed, over and over. For A normal, happy life. To wake up from this nightmare. For some sense of justice. Anything. But miracles like that didn’t happen. There was nothing. No justice, no parents or siblings coming back from the dead. And the only person in the world who understood had just walked away. Maybe there was no one out there to hear his prayers. Maybe he really was just as alone as he felt.
He squeezed his eyes shut and slammed his fist down into the mattress.
How could anyone do something like that? So many families had been torn apart, and so many lives lost. He surely wasn’t the only one laying awake right now, stewing over what had happened. But how many people were going to do something about it? How many people given the chance to meet whoever was responsible would step up and give them a piece of their mind, and for that matter their fist, and how many would run away in fear sharing the fate of their loved ones?
God Damn them all.
He shot up in bed, looking out the window. He would have to give up on sleeping for a while. Right now he had to will himself to stop crying. His knuckles clenched tightly around a bit of blanket, and for the first time he silently let his rage grow.
He turned over again in an exaggerated motion, and the rustling of the sheets seemed to echo against the walls. Propping himself up on an elbow he fluffed his pillow, grabbing the spot where his head had been with a fist and shaking it roughly before plopping it back down. He let himself fall face first back into it, but nothing had changed. He wasn’t any more comfortable.
He sighed deeply, turning back to his side. The light of a full moon gleamed through the window at his back, and fell upon the pristine blanket of the empty bed next to him. It wasn’t right. That bed hadn’t been made in over a year and there it was staring at him, pillow sham smooth and sheets neatly tucked in on three sides.
The whole room was almost as empty as that bed. Books and clothes were packed in boxes in the hall... and that hall was even emptier. The doors that lead off of it were all open, and the air seemed stale and unmoving. The entire house was still, except for his anxiously wiggling feet under the covers, and the uneasy rise and fall of his chest.
Why? It wasn’t fair. He had prayed, over and over. For A normal, happy life. To wake up from this nightmare. For some sense of justice. Anything. But miracles like that didn’t happen. There was nothing. No justice, no parents or siblings coming back from the dead. And the only person in the world who understood had just walked away. Maybe there was no one out there to hear his prayers. Maybe he really was just as alone as he felt.
He squeezed his eyes shut and slammed his fist down into the mattress.
How could anyone do something like that? So many families had been torn apart, and so many lives lost. He surely wasn’t the only one laying awake right now, stewing over what had happened. But how many people were going to do something about it? How many people given the chance to meet whoever was responsible would step up and give them a piece of their mind, and for that matter their fist, and how many would run away in fear sharing the fate of their loved ones?
God Damn them all.
He shot up in bed, looking out the window. He would have to give up on sleeping for a while. Right now he had to will himself to stop crying. His knuckles clenched tightly around a bit of blanket, and for the first time he silently let his rage grow.