Warnings: Mentions of murder, suicide and paedophilia, implied abortion.
A/N: Written for the Notebook In Hand competition for the prompt Ten. Was meant to be between 200 and 2000 words (not exceeding), but I didn't make the deadline (so didn't submit), and kind of luckily, because I went over the limit.
A/N2: Inspired by The Keeper by Sarah Langan and Franz Kafka's writing, in particular The Metamorphosis. This is without a doubt the most horrid and creepy thing I've ever written.
Summary: The whisper echoes inside her mind. Never let the secrets go. It's the most important thing she'll ever learn.
( Ten Little Children. )
Originally posted at a fiction community, where it received (if I remember correctly) good reviews (which gives me the courage to upload it here).
So, most random thing occured. Lying on my bed, having just finished a uni reading and freecell game a plot hit me like a meteor and I was terrified if I didn't get the first sentence down then I would lose all hope for ever finishing it. So I wrote that sentence, and then the next and then the next... twenty minutes and two edits later, this is the final product.
Title: Locating Salvation.
Rating: Um. Let's go PG. It has a slight adult theme, but nothing serious.
A/N: Apologies for errors, I have no beta. Point them out, I'll fix it. Also, feedback welcome and in giving constructive criticism, please make it as kind as possible. I'm a little sensitive about my writing sometimes and am prone to giving up when getting cons-crit, despite how it helps. Otherwise, I appreciate your reading time.
The small box eludes her grasp, and she rifles through several different endless textures in a desperate search for what seems like, at this moment, salvation. It is always impossible to find exactly what she is looking for at the time. Hours ago, she was going through these same motions in search of car keys and she had brushed against this cardboard box and flicked it carelessly away with a single digit, having only a need to locate cold hard metal.
But it is now that same cold metal that passes between her fingertips over and over, as if they are desperate to be held in her hand. She impatiently pulls the keys out and for a moment in between the smooth caress of fabric against her skin, the hard corner of cardboard grates against her little finger and she jolts, dropping the keys back into the bag while her hand races them back down.
It was futile to think that it could be so easily reclaimed. The box as well as the keys have disappeared from her reach and she pauses, takes a deep breath and hauls her bag down off of her shoulder. She kneels and uses both hands to hold the bag open. Homeless receipts wink at her in the sunlight and forgotten spare change blinks dully, having not seen blue sky since the moment they were tossed haphazardly in amongst pens, scraps of paper, lip balm and a perfume bottle.
She really thinks it’s about time she sorted through the mess, knowing one day she will lose sanity over the ridiculous amount of time it takes to locate a single item. But she spots her beloved box trapped beneath a cluster of lolly wrappers and, eyes solely focused on her prize, not daring to look away in fear it might be lost again, she smooths away hard plastic. There. Finally.
The lid pops open gently and she slides out a cylinder almost reverently, placing it in anticipation between spit-slicked lips. She stands, still holding the bag in both hands and resumes her walk, already feeling much happier about having to stop in the first place. She lets one hand grip the junction between leather and zip, while the other braves again the war zone of the bag to find an adequate spot for the cigarette packet. Having determined the bottom right hand corner as perfect and shifting her wallet in order to create ample space, she takes another deep breath.
Now, she has to find her lighter.
The very first thing I noticed was that he tasted like Jack Daniels and cigarettes.
It was strange, the obnoxious outbursts in the local patron’s conversations was transformed into a warm drowsy hum of background noise as I was enveloped by his smell, his feel and his taste.
What never struck me as odd was why I was kissing him. It was one of those things that happened. We were both there at the bar at the same time. I said it had been a while, he said it was good to see me again. We both bought drinks and then, he leaned over and kissed me.
He tasted like Jack Daniels and cigarettes.
In the end, it wasn’t who I was with that captivated me, it was what he was.
Strong, thin fingers that delicately gripped my neck and the base of my skull, he was a musky scent that infused my blood. He was the long body that was so close, so warm and so insistent.
He was perhaps a mistake.
A broken soul, he was those things in life that were prohibited under any circumstances. He was the bits and pieces you indulged in when no one was looking.
He was Jack Daniels and cigarettes.
And I became addicted to both.