#creativewritingclasswork

The first thing that registers is the ringing. Dull, but achingly consistent as the edges of my consciousness overflow with light. It’s taking longer than I want it to. It’s not going to matter. I know what’s next. Swipe my arm across my chest. Wrench off the blanket and use the weight of my legs to swing off the bed. Turn off the latest Kpop favorite playing from my phone. It’s the same routine, and then…it isn’t. Expecting the plush “periwinkle-ish” fabric, the tips of my fingers are met raw with the scraping of gravel. On my chest? The floor—dust? Concrete. And then the world is rushing back. The ringing’s louder as my eyes shoot open from the pain that’s been reintroduced. Checklist ready: Arms, legs, head. Okay, of course the head. Burning feeling. Scrapes. My elbow is off. Don’t worry about it now. A sudden induction of breath. It’s fast. Too fast. I’m hyperventilating. Get up. Move. Move! My body won’t stop shaking as I try to shift what seems to weigh six times the usual amount. Sit up. Lean forward. Crouch. Pick a direction and run. There’s some part of me that knows what to do. It’s not providing exposition. My vision’s back. Shit. My breath is hoarse as I push up onto my feet. What hellscape is this? It’s all spinning but I’m getting my bearings. That way’s fire; there’s some people running. Don’t look too close at the people in the fire. Turn around. Run where they do. People run away from danger. Normally towards this embassy. Not today. The ringing stops only to be replaced with screams. Don’t look back. Don’t look. Keep running. I can barely feel the ground under my feet as I forge ahead. Sneakers. Oh. I changed. I can’t see my elbow under this blazer. Does it still work? Work! I changed for lunch. I was walking back with…No. Please no. Don’t think about it. Don’t look back. Smoke and debris fill the space. I’ve walked this same route for three years. I can make it. It’s not over yet. I’m still alive so it can’t be. I have to survive.

The painting came with the house. Ornate oak framing and unfinished back upon the mantle. A simple spattering of shape to gaze upon whilst claiming the rocking chair, fire stirring satiety and vitriol alike. 

A woman with straw-colored hair and a youthful flush wearing the boxiest white linen dress possible—Sal liked to imagine it was the first image in an artist’s 10-year progress series. Still, it was not bad, and each day he stood to appreciate it just a little more. 

One day he took note of the texture of the ringlets which barely grazed her shoulders. It looked like hundreds of strands were independently illustrated with delicacy rivaling fine silk. Another time he almost laughed as he noticed that it did not show the woman’s eyes closed at all but had eyes so clear blue they glowed with the depth of our galaxies. 

The smile was not quaint as he once thought but displayed lips gently upturned and sparkling white teeth in a coquettish invite. The cheeks once defined by their cherubic reflections were in fact hollowed and angled like the very representation of a Hollywood beauty. 

Each night he stared, waiting for his newest revelation, and she stared back almost thanking him for his acknowledgement. Cordelia, he named her, having habituated himself into talking to her as many hours his life would allow. He would repeat it as a mantra so it would be the last thing to grace his lips each gasp before sleep.