Darkness; Dreaming

The Life and Death of Alistair Grout - Part 3

*Again this is a little short but it is pretty well contained so it seemed silly to keep on going past where I ended up cutting it off.*


The sun is low on the horizon by the time that Alistair stumbles back to his apartment door, cold sweat drenching his clothes and causing his skin prickle and burn. He searches for his keys, fumbles and swears before slotting the right on in the lock. He twists – his palms itch and his mouth feels dry – the lock is slow to give and once it does he is forced to shoulder the door open as it catches on the jamb. Relieved he pulls the chain across the door and throws himself down upon the bed. Every part of his body aches, as if something vital deep inside him were broken or suddenly missing. Unable to bring himself to move he surrenders himself to sleep and the myriad of twisted imagery that nightmares bring.



The sky is a long time dark by the time he finally comes to and for a brief moment he has trouble determining where he is. Anxiously he gropes in the darkness for the reading light beside the bed and is rewarded with a stabbing pain in the back of his eyes when he eventually finds it and flicks it on. He coughs and tries to cover them, only to retch at the horrible sour taste that has pooled in the back of his throat while he slept. He rises slowly, still shielding his eyes, and moves toward the sink for a glass of water – he makes it half way before he realises that his apartment is not how he had left it.
All about him is chaos: his suitcase has been ripped open and the contents tipped out and then rummaged through; kitchen drawers hang half open, a dirty plate is shattered upon the floor. Frantically he checks through everything and then breathes a sigh of relief when it becomes clear that nothing seems to be missing, although, he now admits to himself, it is not as if he really owns anything worth stealing any more. Nothing valuable... he sits amongst his scattered possessions and thinks for a moment and then his gaze is slowly drawn to where he had left the silver flask the day before: The kitchen bench is bare.

He trembles despite himself, looking towards the door, still shut, still locked and yet someone has been here while he slept. A liquid chill seem to roll down his back and he shivers involuntarily and suddenly the room seems very small and very dark; the light by his bed almost struggling to keep the shadows at bay. He no longer feels safe. He has to leave.

Frantically he jams everything back into his suitcase and pulls on his jacket and moves to go. Something bumps against his chest. He freezes. Slowly his hand goes to his pocket and quickly darts inside. There is a sloshing and a shifting of weight. The flask, except now half full. He stares at it like he would have a venomous snake.

His mind races and he begins to shake. Nothings wrong. Nothings wrong. Someone is just playing a prank. Someone is just messing with me. Having a bit of fun...
He breathes deeply and tries to push the thought away. The flask glints dully in his hand and completely illogically he begins to remember how thirsty he is. The flask seem to call to him. It warms in his hand, first pleasantly and then as he resists, with enough heat to burn skin.
He yelps in alarm and hurls it across the room where it clangs against a wall and comes unstopped, splashing dark fluid all about before it drops and vanishes behind the bed.

The pain is slow to fade and for a long moment he simply stands there twitching and wondering if he is beginning to lose his mind. How can it have done that? How could it have gotten hot? Blankly he stares down at his hand, at skin burnt pink. He swallows, his throat grinding on itself as if it were made of sandpaper. Somewhere in the back of his mind it occurs to him that if he were to leap across the bed now he might be able to save whatever was left before it all spilled out onto the carpet. At the thought his muscles snap taught and it is all he can do to stop himself from doing so.

Something is very wrong here.

He tries to move towards the door instead, his body fights him for a moment and then surrenders, a mournful cry bubbling up unbidden from deep within.

As if released he bolts and runs. Out the door and down the stairs.

He does not look back.

Outside the sun has now well and truly set, but Alistair pays no mind and pulls himself out into the night. He passes people, he passes bars, he does not stop; all distractions driven from his head and his mind burning with with apprehension and paranoia. He watches everyone, watches how they move, how they act, half expecting one to come at him at any moment.

From far behind he is watched as well. Studied. Observed. The watcher follows and decides to wait.



The start of this last part gave me a little bit of trouble, namely because although I felt it was necessary, the skipping of most a day still seemed a little jarring - I have had an idea for a transitional scene that I think would make it less so but strangely I I can only see it working if the story were a film or a television show - as I have yet to find a way to translate something purely visual into writing in a way that I am satisfied with.

Different ideas and pacing work better for different mediums I guess.

For the moment this may have to go unresolved however as although I am enjoying writing this story and I have rather a large amount of it already plotted out I need to work on other stuff as well, seeing as I do still have a number of other decent other story ideas rattling around in the old birdcage that I want to test out as well as a desire to revisit some of my earlier stuff (edits, re-dos etc.) just to see what happens.

I will, hopefully, come back to it eventually - especially if there is a request to do so - but for the moment WATCH THIS SPACE - there be new stuff on the horizon and I am feeling more confident about my writing (for no real apparent reason) so it might actually be readable.

Stay tuned,



M.