I woke with a start. Was it possible to do that with a stop? Or with a finish? Why is it alw...more**spoiler alert** Sin
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Copyright 2011 by Shaun Allan -
I woke with a start. Was it possible to do that with a stop? Or with a finish? Why is it always a start? Not too long before I'd have been happy to wake up with an END. As my body jerked awake, the knotted tree trunk gave me a good kick in my back to remind me where I was. I could have told it that I hadn't forgotten, but trees are notoriously bad conversationalists, especially in the mornings. Well, without a hot Cappo and some toast, who isn't?
But... was it morning? Dewy webs dotted the ground like a warped game of Twister where all the spots were white or silver. Now that would be confusing – you wouldn’t know where to put your foot or hand. I stretched, wincing as my back breathed a sigh of relief at finally being released from the bark's surface. I wondered at who spun the wheel and who did the twisting. Spiders could cheat and squirrels only had short legs. It wouldn't really be a fair game. I'm glad I'd only played with my sister and friends.
The light had a hazy feel to it, as if it was on a dimmer that hadn't quite been turned all the way up. I could see a vague fog drifting across the fields beyond the forest, aimless and lost. I knew how it felt. The mist failed to reach into the confines of the trees, perhaps lying in wait for me when I emerged. No matter, I thought. I could handle a bit of fog. It was hardly a case of Mr. T versus Rocky Balboa, was it? Of course John Carpenter or James Herbert might disagree, but I'd have to take that chance. If the mist thought it was hard enough to try it on with me, let it have a go.
Big words from an escaped lunatic, don't you think?
It certainly felt like morning time. How early I couldn't tell, but the air had a definite crispness to it, like it was just out of the wrapping and hadn't been used yet. I felt guilty taking a breath, as if by exhaling I could possibly taint the atmosphere - but hey, I felt guilty taking the last jaffa cake from the box. It didn't stop me. The freshness of the air was sharp in my throat and nostrils, cleaning them out as it passed on through. I felt like someone had stuck a Dyson down my throat and sucked out all the grimy remnants of modern day’s pollution. It was as if every breath I'd ever taken had traces of muck and sludge mingled in it, and this clear morning air had scoured me out better than a hydrochloric enema. I could have been breathing for the very first time, instead of the twenty millionth or so.
How often do you breathe in a life time? I think I read somewhere that it was around twenty thousand times a day. It sounds like a lot, but it's only about fourteen times a minute, give or take the odd yawn or hiccup to spoil the flow. So that makes it about... erm... put the 1 on the doorstep... about seven hundred million or so in a century? Of course, if you're still breathing at a century then you're doing something right - breathing for one.
Anyway, today's felt like Numero Uno for me. My lungs had been plucked from my torso, chucked in a washer on 40° and hung on the line to dry, thereafter being shoved back in my body to start all over again. Refreshed, revived, replenished and renewed. I guess I'd been RE'ed in every which way but loose, Clyde. It was great. I was Samson before he'd nipped to the hairdressers for a quick wash, cut and blow dry. Whether it was Androcles or Saint Jerome who pulled the thorn from the lion's paw, I could do it with my teeth whilst blindfolded and with both hands tied behind my back. Unusually invigorated by the morning, I pushed myself to my feet, ignoring my protesting joints, and decided I was going to get my shiny metal behind into gear. If the men in white coats came a-hunting-we-will-go, then they'd have to catch me. If Dr. Connors was on the prowl, he'd have to find me. And if my dead sister wanted to stop by for a chat again, a-haunting-we-will-go, then she'd just have to call first so I could check my diary. Either that or she'd have to bring some Viennese Whirls. I hadn't had any for ages, and I just fancied one.
Of my sister, there was no sign. Maggots weren't wriggling towards the morning sun like turtles to the sea and the grass wasn't flattened where she'd stepped. No cockroaches crunched underfoot and I failed to see any globby bits of flesh, with hair still sprouting, hiding between the roots of the trees. My dream had been a dream and no more. Of course it had. Why did I feel the need to convince myself? Yes, it had seemed real, apart from her eye popping out and the like, but she was dead. It hadn't been real. Just a dream veering precariously close to the edge of nightmare without quite careening over.
Not that I'm saying my sister was a nightmare. She could sometimes be, though, a bit wee, a bit woo, a bit wah, if you know what I mean. Often even a bit WOAH! I didn't know whether to blame that on hormones or just general femininity. Who understood a woman? Not even women was my guess. And isn't any sibling a nightmare at times? Isn't it always a case of 'I can call you but if anyone else does I'll rip their head off?' Such it was with Joy and me. She did my head in, big style, sometimes, but she was still my sister. So why dream of her with a face melting faster than hot wax?
Go on, ask me another. Dare ya.
-
"Sin" by Shaun Allan is a 105,000 word supernatural thriller that has been described as a 'masterpiece of genuine creativity'.
Sin also has a blog, his diary from within the asylum, where he describes his experiences and the people he meets within the institute. Read it at http://singularityspoint.blogspot.com
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