Prosfic - An Angel in the Architecture by Slantedlight
Finally - that fic I started the other day - written for the 13th picfor1000 challenge, the general theme of which was "unlucky", and my prompt picture is after the story. According to my count it's exactly 1000 words, but that did take some battling with Word, which insisted on counting ellipses as words, this time around... what?!
And with many thanks to milomaus, kiwisue, jessebee and shooting2kill for last-minute beta-reading and some excellent saves. *g*
An Angel in the Architecture
by Slantedlight
It’s cold in the bottom of the skip, and Doyle’s getting too old for this. It’s wet too, water soaking through his jeans, his jumper, through to his t-shirt and his skin. He’s cold, he’s going to start shivering soon, and that’s not good. He needs to do something.
They said they'd call in a warning, he knows they won't.
Much too old.
He thinks his left arm is probably broken, the one that he’s lying on, and he’d move his right one to try and get a purchase on the hard icy metal, to pull himself up, but he knows for sure that his collarbone’s out on that side, and just breathing makes him want to fall back into warm, dark unconsciousness. There’s a reason he shouldn’t do that, and he mostly remembers what it is, so he keeps his eyes open, and tries to hold himself tense so that he won’t shiver.
Just another minute to gather his strength, and then he’ll get himself out of here.
It’s there. Underneath.
Focus, he has to focus, keep the fog at bay, because that’s cold too. There’s light above him, so it’s Tuesday morning, and he must have been unconscious, because he remembers them throwing his broken body into the skip, like so much useless rubbish, and it was still dark then.
“See if you’ve got the luck of the devil!” Laughing.
He’s covered in muck, debris and rubble from a building site it looks like, a piece of plasterboard slanted above him, resting on his foot, and that hurts too, with the kind of twinging pain that means his ankle’s probably broken. He can’t feel his other leg at all, and he hopes that’s just because of the cold.
Try moving it.
In a minute.
It’s cold, but if he starts to shiver he’ll black out from his collarbone, and maybe from his ankle and his arm as well. His face feels bruised on one side, the side that’s pressed to the grit and swill where the water’s pooled underneath him. It’s not much, not even an inch, but its cold. He’s still mostly dry where he’s not lapped by the water, but it’s seeping through his clothes, chilling him, icing him.
He has to move. Get out.
Thinking about it, that’s worse than doing it.
Can’t move, it hurts to breathe. Can’t black out, it’ll all be over if he does…
Focus.
Bodie is the reason.
Tries.
o0o
The next time he opens his eyes there’s a rumbling not far away, loud and familiar, and it’s not out of place, but he can’t place it, and for some reason it’s cutting through the cold and the pain, and his head is screaming at it - no-no-no-no-no…
He blacked out after all, remembers the sudden sharp pain that must have caused it. Broken rib probably - maybe more than one.
Where’s Bodie? Bodie needs to come and find him now. But he doesn’t know. Can’t come.
Strangely, as if he’s conjured them, he can hear faint shouts suddenly, over the roar and rumbling. Men working in the street? People - there’s a chance, a chance they’ll find him, even if he can’t move and he’s cold and Bodie can’t come. Someone will come, they’ll stop it, they’ll take him to Bodie.
What the hell is that noise, pounding through his brain, counterpoint to everything that’s gone wrong, to his rising panic, worse than everything, because he can’t focus and he needs to work out how to get back to Bodie. What the hell…?
Ah.
He closes his eyes, just for a minute, only for a minute, because…
Because it’s a rubbish truck.
It’s roaring and rattling and clanging further down the road, but it’s getting closer because he can hear it, hear the clattering of wheels as the skips are pulled into place, hear the clash of the grip as the arms scrunch into position, hear the grinding of the gears as… as the skip is loaded and tipped and emptied.
Hear the dull roar of the compressor.
Can’t move, can’t think, can’t shout.
Too late, it’s all too much.
“Six six six!” someone shouts over the scraping of metal and the roar of the truck, and he thinks that he must be dreaming, because it makes no sense. “There!”
Another voice, and this one’s louder. Angry. “Yeah, and our jobs on the line mate, if we get behind! You can explain…”
They need to hear him.
“I’m inside…” It comes out no more than a croak, a nothing of noise compared to everything else out there. He’ll have to risk blacking out again - it’s his last chance anyway, he’s got to make them hear before he’s tipped into the… into it with everything else. There are people there - maybe they’ll hear. Maybe they’ll see.
And if they don’t then at least he won’t be awake for it.
His mind is clearer now, now that there’s hope, now that the end is so close, now that it could be so much more painful than he’d ever dreamed.
If he can push himself sideways the plasterboard will fall, if he keeps going it’ll hit the side of the skip, and if he’s dying anyway he’s going out with a roar, no matter what his ribs say.
Easy breaths to start with - one - two - then all at once…
He pushes somehow with his good leg, the one lying sodden in the water, and he forces himself over despite his collarbone, his ribs, his arm, his everything, because this is the last chance, and as the plasterboard tips with him, towards the side of the skip with a clang, and then towards him, telescoping in with his vision, he breathes in cold morning air, and in his head, at least, its a shout.
“Bo-daaaay!”
The last thing he hears, which he knows can’t be true, is Bodie’s voice, above sudden clean silence.
“…bloody bomb in there - d’you want to be blown sky high… what the fuck?”
February 2015
And with many thanks to milomaus, kiwisue, jessebee and shooting2kill for last-minute beta-reading and some excellent saves. *g*
An Angel in the Architecture
by Slantedlight
It’s cold in the bottom of the skip, and Doyle’s getting too old for this. It’s wet too, water soaking through his jeans, his jumper, through to his t-shirt and his skin. He’s cold, he’s going to start shivering soon, and that’s not good. He needs to do something.
They said they'd call in a warning, he knows they won't.
Much too old.
He thinks his left arm is probably broken, the one that he’s lying on, and he’d move his right one to try and get a purchase on the hard icy metal, to pull himself up, but he knows for sure that his collarbone’s out on that side, and just breathing makes him want to fall back into warm, dark unconsciousness. There’s a reason he shouldn’t do that, and he mostly remembers what it is, so he keeps his eyes open, and tries to hold himself tense so that he won’t shiver.
Just another minute to gather his strength, and then he’ll get himself out of here.
It’s there. Underneath.
Focus, he has to focus, keep the fog at bay, because that’s cold too. There’s light above him, so it’s Tuesday morning, and he must have been unconscious, because he remembers them throwing his broken body into the skip, like so much useless rubbish, and it was still dark then.
“See if you’ve got the luck of the devil!” Laughing.
He’s covered in muck, debris and rubble from a building site it looks like, a piece of plasterboard slanted above him, resting on his foot, and that hurts too, with the kind of twinging pain that means his ankle’s probably broken. He can’t feel his other leg at all, and he hopes that’s just because of the cold.
Try moving it.
In a minute.
It’s cold, but if he starts to shiver he’ll black out from his collarbone, and maybe from his ankle and his arm as well. His face feels bruised on one side, the side that’s pressed to the grit and swill where the water’s pooled underneath him. It’s not much, not even an inch, but its cold. He’s still mostly dry where he’s not lapped by the water, but it’s seeping through his clothes, chilling him, icing him.
He has to move. Get out.
Thinking about it, that’s worse than doing it.
Can’t move, it hurts to breathe. Can’t black out, it’ll all be over if he does…
Focus.
Bodie is the reason.
Tries.
o0o
The next time he opens his eyes there’s a rumbling not far away, loud and familiar, and it’s not out of place, but he can’t place it, and for some reason it’s cutting through the cold and the pain, and his head is screaming at it - no-no-no-no-no…
He blacked out after all, remembers the sudden sharp pain that must have caused it. Broken rib probably - maybe more than one.
Where’s Bodie? Bodie needs to come and find him now. But he doesn’t know. Can’t come.
Strangely, as if he’s conjured them, he can hear faint shouts suddenly, over the roar and rumbling. Men working in the street? People - there’s a chance, a chance they’ll find him, even if he can’t move and he’s cold and Bodie can’t come. Someone will come, they’ll stop it, they’ll take him to Bodie.
What the hell is that noise, pounding through his brain, counterpoint to everything that’s gone wrong, to his rising panic, worse than everything, because he can’t focus and he needs to work out how to get back to Bodie. What the hell…?
Ah.
He closes his eyes, just for a minute, only for a minute, because…
Because it’s a rubbish truck.
It’s roaring and rattling and clanging further down the road, but it’s getting closer because he can hear it, hear the clattering of wheels as the skips are pulled into place, hear the clash of the grip as the arms scrunch into position, hear the grinding of the gears as… as the skip is loaded and tipped and emptied.
Hear the dull roar of the compressor.
Can’t move, can’t think, can’t shout.
Too late, it’s all too much.
“Six six six!” someone shouts over the scraping of metal and the roar of the truck, and he thinks that he must be dreaming, because it makes no sense. “There!”
Another voice, and this one’s louder. Angry. “Yeah, and our jobs on the line mate, if we get behind! You can explain…”
They need to hear him.
“I’m inside…” It comes out no more than a croak, a nothing of noise compared to everything else out there. He’ll have to risk blacking out again - it’s his last chance anyway, he’s got to make them hear before he’s tipped into the… into it with everything else. There are people there - maybe they’ll hear. Maybe they’ll see.
And if they don’t then at least he won’t be awake for it.
His mind is clearer now, now that there’s hope, now that the end is so close, now that it could be so much more painful than he’d ever dreamed.
If he can push himself sideways the plasterboard will fall, if he keeps going it’ll hit the side of the skip, and if he’s dying anyway he’s going out with a roar, no matter what his ribs say.
Easy breaths to start with - one - two - then all at once…
He pushes somehow with his good leg, the one lying sodden in the water, and he forces himself over despite his collarbone, his ribs, his arm, his everything, because this is the last chance, and as the plasterboard tips with him, towards the side of the skip with a clang, and then towards him, telescoping in with his vision, he breathes in cold morning air, and in his head, at least, its a shout.
“Bo-daaaay!”
The last thing he hears, which he knows can’t be true, is Bodie’s voice, above sudden clean silence.
“…bloody bomb in there - d’you want to be blown sky high… what the fuck?”
February 2015