[Fic] Original. PG. Autumn
Written December 7, 2007. The final assignment for my Reading Short Stories class... Just figure I may as well post it.
Autumn
by monitor screen
The budding of rose hips marked the end of summer. He squinted for a moment at the lush, crimson globes, wishing he could touch them through the glass planes.
Had the windows be opened, he might have smelt the rich scent of earth, felt the crisp, cool wind on his face. As it was, the air was still, stale, the afternoon sunlight revealing dust motes on its descent. It shined warm on his coat, and he stretched.
It had been quiet for the last few days. Abnormally quiet. He had not seen her rise since the morning three days past, and she had been unnaturally still thence. He was worried about her - she had been in bed for longer before, but during those times she had not been always sleeping like this. He remembered fondly of the days they had spent together amidst the quilts, idly watching the play of light on the leaves outside. Her body had been warm then, the fingers on his back gentle.
He approached her bedroom now with trepidation, the silence ringing loud in his ears. She was not moving at all, and the room smelled like decay. He nudged her hand timidly, wincing at the coldness of her flesh. She did not respond.
He retreated to the kitchen downstairs. He did not understand it. But whatever happened, he instinctively knew that it was ominous.
It rained last night, and the carpet was wet. He tiptoed through the mess, swinging nimbly into the corridor. The phone rang, giving him a jolt, and he stilled to listen if it had managed to awaken her. The ringing echoed into the gloom, a heartbeat, then two, and then he shrugged and went on his way. He was right to not dare hope.
He gave her bedroom door a wide berth as he returned from the bathroom. He had not the courage to enter for a week by now. The stink of wrongness, of rot permeated through the house, the air thick and hard to breathe. But there was no way out, and he resignedly trod back to his perch by the kitchen window, to watch the storm outside.
The sky was dark with overcast, and lightning flashed now and then. He sat up straighter suddenly when he thought he saw something big and solid moving through the distance, the first time in months. He remembered the boxes that followed such a visit last time, and the young man smelling of sunshine and sweat that had carried them in. He thought he recognised the fading paint on the vehicle, the muffled roll of the engine. He watched the giant thing approach, an unknown anticipation rising in him. He shifted, muscles tensing, ready to spring into action.
Ere long the roll of the engine died down. The doorbell rang, startling him with its unfamiliar crackles. He listened avidly, willing her to come down and answer the door, like he had seen her do so many times. But all was still in the house, and he was stringed anew on the edge of despair. Surely--
The ringing turned into banging, and the door rattled in its frame under the force. He watched uneasily for a moment, hesitantly starting towards the door. But just when he was lingering in the middle of the hallway, uncertain of what to do, the thing crashed.
He bolted into a dark corner, crouching, even as he took in the fresh stormy breeze in gulps. There was the same young man, cursing loudly with disgust, but stomping in all the same. He curled tighter in his crouch.
The young man stalked noisily around the house, muttering disagreeably under his breath. Finally he ventured upstairs. There was a yell, yet more cursing, and he saw through the gap between two pieces of furniture that the young man had escaped outside, talking into his phone as he went.
He slowly, carefully edged his way deeper into the shadows. This new development scared him. The visitor was supposed to wake her, not making all these noises, disturbing their home.
But before he could come into terms with the young man's intrusion, more bustle sounded outside the door, and more people came in. The formerly forlorn house was abuzz with movements. People talked, prodded, and stumped around the place. It was too much for him; he fled.
It was days until the commotion finally died down. He made his way into the vacated house carefully, wary of the scents of strangers all over the place. They had opened the windows, and frosty draft swept through the empty house. The sense of decay was still there, almost washed out but present, and he shivered as he made for his old spot in the kitchen.
This was another sort of quiet, hollow but without the constant press of dread as the time she had laid still and cold in her bed. After a while he gathered up enough courage to explore the house, to see what the strangers had done in his absence.
Most of the territory was trodden, ravaged. He danced through the muddy boot prints on the floor, grumbling of the dirt as he went. At last he was at her door; he stood for a moment, steadying himself, then entered.
He managed not to choke at the strong stench of sickness clinging to the room, and stayed long enough to note that the bed - the nest of so many of their wonderful memories - was quite destroyed beyond repair. The sheets were gone, as were the pillows and quilts, and the mattress was so soaked with that disgusting fluid he could not bear to get closer than a yard. There was nothing to be found here. She was gone.
He retreated to the relative peaceful space downstairs, determined to await her return. This was not the first time she had been gone, he told himself, and she would return like she always did. She would not leave him.
He took a drink from the tap, seeking comfort in the familiarity of the action, even as he knew that nothing was ever going to be the same anymore.
He stayed long enough to see the first snow. The house had run out of foodstuff a while ago, and the water to the taps had stopped. He made do with what he could find in the neighbouring woods, but at last the frigid temperature forced him to leave. There was nothing mentionable to be found outside in this weather, and the house was freezing, silent and desolate, like a tomb.
He gave the morning when he woke with frost on his coat, and saw white everywhere outside. With the last of his strengths, he shrugged to warm himself, and padded out with a grumbling stomach.
It was a long time before he reached anything but the endless white, and he sighed in relief as he saw the warm spill of yellow light on the field. He scratched at the foreign door, calling weakly. A moment later somebody came.
"Hello-- What have we here? Come in, kitty, you look like you could use some warmth."
Autumn
by monitor screen
The budding of rose hips marked the end of summer. He squinted for a moment at the lush, crimson globes, wishing he could touch them through the glass planes.
Had the windows be opened, he might have smelt the rich scent of earth, felt the crisp, cool wind on his face. As it was, the air was still, stale, the afternoon sunlight revealing dust motes on its descent. It shined warm on his coat, and he stretched.
It had been quiet for the last few days. Abnormally quiet. He had not seen her rise since the morning three days past, and she had been unnaturally still thence. He was worried about her - she had been in bed for longer before, but during those times she had not been always sleeping like this. He remembered fondly of the days they had spent together amidst the quilts, idly watching the play of light on the leaves outside. Her body had been warm then, the fingers on his back gentle.
He approached her bedroom now with trepidation, the silence ringing loud in his ears. She was not moving at all, and the room smelled like decay. He nudged her hand timidly, wincing at the coldness of her flesh. She did not respond.
He retreated to the kitchen downstairs. He did not understand it. But whatever happened, he instinctively knew that it was ominous.
It rained last night, and the carpet was wet. He tiptoed through the mess, swinging nimbly into the corridor. The phone rang, giving him a jolt, and he stilled to listen if it had managed to awaken her. The ringing echoed into the gloom, a heartbeat, then two, and then he shrugged and went on his way. He was right to not dare hope.
He gave her bedroom door a wide berth as he returned from the bathroom. He had not the courage to enter for a week by now. The stink of wrongness, of rot permeated through the house, the air thick and hard to breathe. But there was no way out, and he resignedly trod back to his perch by the kitchen window, to watch the storm outside.
The sky was dark with overcast, and lightning flashed now and then. He sat up straighter suddenly when he thought he saw something big and solid moving through the distance, the first time in months. He remembered the boxes that followed such a visit last time, and the young man smelling of sunshine and sweat that had carried them in. He thought he recognised the fading paint on the vehicle, the muffled roll of the engine. He watched the giant thing approach, an unknown anticipation rising in him. He shifted, muscles tensing, ready to spring into action.
Ere long the roll of the engine died down. The doorbell rang, startling him with its unfamiliar crackles. He listened avidly, willing her to come down and answer the door, like he had seen her do so many times. But all was still in the house, and he was stringed anew on the edge of despair. Surely--
The ringing turned into banging, and the door rattled in its frame under the force. He watched uneasily for a moment, hesitantly starting towards the door. But just when he was lingering in the middle of the hallway, uncertain of what to do, the thing crashed.
He bolted into a dark corner, crouching, even as he took in the fresh stormy breeze in gulps. There was the same young man, cursing loudly with disgust, but stomping in all the same. He curled tighter in his crouch.
The young man stalked noisily around the house, muttering disagreeably under his breath. Finally he ventured upstairs. There was a yell, yet more cursing, and he saw through the gap between two pieces of furniture that the young man had escaped outside, talking into his phone as he went.
He slowly, carefully edged his way deeper into the shadows. This new development scared him. The visitor was supposed to wake her, not making all these noises, disturbing their home.
But before he could come into terms with the young man's intrusion, more bustle sounded outside the door, and more people came in. The formerly forlorn house was abuzz with movements. People talked, prodded, and stumped around the place. It was too much for him; he fled.
It was days until the commotion finally died down. He made his way into the vacated house carefully, wary of the scents of strangers all over the place. They had opened the windows, and frosty draft swept through the empty house. The sense of decay was still there, almost washed out but present, and he shivered as he made for his old spot in the kitchen.
This was another sort of quiet, hollow but without the constant press of dread as the time she had laid still and cold in her bed. After a while he gathered up enough courage to explore the house, to see what the strangers had done in his absence.
Most of the territory was trodden, ravaged. He danced through the muddy boot prints on the floor, grumbling of the dirt as he went. At last he was at her door; he stood for a moment, steadying himself, then entered.
He managed not to choke at the strong stench of sickness clinging to the room, and stayed long enough to note that the bed - the nest of so many of their wonderful memories - was quite destroyed beyond repair. The sheets were gone, as were the pillows and quilts, and the mattress was so soaked with that disgusting fluid he could not bear to get closer than a yard. There was nothing to be found here. She was gone.
He retreated to the relative peaceful space downstairs, determined to await her return. This was not the first time she had been gone, he told himself, and she would return like she always did. She would not leave him.
He took a drink from the tap, seeking comfort in the familiarity of the action, even as he knew that nothing was ever going to be the same anymore.
He stayed long enough to see the first snow. The house had run out of foodstuff a while ago, and the water to the taps had stopped. He made do with what he could find in the neighbouring woods, but at last the frigid temperature forced him to leave. There was nothing mentionable to be found outside in this weather, and the house was freezing, silent and desolate, like a tomb.
He gave the morning when he woke with frost on his coat, and saw white everywhere outside. With the last of his strengths, he shrugged to warm himself, and padded out with a grumbling stomach.
It was a long time before he reached anything but the endless white, and he sighed in relief as he saw the warm spill of yellow light on the field. He scratched at the foreign door, calling weakly. A moment later somebody came.
"Hello-- What have we here? Come in, kitty, you look like you could use some warmth."