nightmorning
I woke up this morning, aided by the cats as usual. I went downstairs, laptop in hand, thoughts of the day. Despair. Hopeful-lessness. Pain.
I sat in the sunken end of the couch and pulled back one curtain, like I would do during the day, but this time I only exposed the dawn. The night, really.
And something about that made me write. For the first time in forever.
But in a weird way.
I’m writing this, right now, with my eyes closed. Pause for dramatic effect (actually I paused while I got my thoughts together).
So, yeah, apparently I know my own keyboard pretty well, so this is a thing I could do. Who knwew?
I wrote the below after I sat down. And partially my eyes were closed, but mostly they were open, because I was staring at a white van that’s always parked outside my house. (It’s my neighbor’s. Don’t freak out.) I wrote with my eyes open, but fixed on the world outside, letting my fingers move without looking at them, letting the words pour out without judging them or even seeing them. Hence, the typos. Below this version I’ll put one with typos corrected, if the mere idea offends you.
Oh, and FYI, yeah, I cleared up the text here. Who wants to write an intro riddled with errors?
(PS: Yes, I switch tense in the first/second paras. Deal with it.)
nightmorning
(written c. 6:32AM – january 27th 2018)
A single cold light bears down on the hard white surface, dully reflecting in the thin morning air. Shadows fall by the wayside, uncared for, lost and alone. The street pays no attention to these things. The street does not care.
The detective took another long look at the scene and then turned away. Enough. Enough for one night, enough for one life. Too many cases. Too much death.
The sides of the van were bloody. Red trailed like paint left slapdash on the outside. The door handles looked like nostrils in a white bone skull, and it was appropriate, Ray knew. because inside the van were three bodies. The three people he’d been looking for. Who he never found, alive at least.
He didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to pull open those doors, witness what was inside, acknowledge the crimes that had occurred. So he stood. He watched. He prayed.
The skin was beginning to color. Orange fades, like a campfire burning over the horizon. Campfires were something that he remembered, something that he wished he’d seen again, but no more. Not since she left.
The orange shifted into a dull, paint mixed grey. White clouds mixing with the reality of the day, coming forth to choke him. The cold light above the van was beginning to fade, pale fluorescents dimming in the ambient light. Still he waited. Prayed. Watched.
A blinking light passing in the sky signaled the arrival of the 530 from Houston. He knew the airline schedule like the inside of his skull, because they’d used it. All of them. Inside the van. That had been the trap.
A cheap airport pickup service. Everyone’s looking for them, everyone wants them, but these three had to go get in the wrong one. Last flight they’d ever take.
He’d tried to think of them, cramming themselves into the waiting white coffin, uncaring, unknowing, just thinking about home and family and sleep. Not thinking about the future beyond the next 20 minutes. Not thinking about their family beyond who needed a kiss goodnight, who needed to be snuggled in bed. Not thinking. Who can blame them, he thought. I’m the same.
Orange burnt sky was giving way to the blue black mix he expected, now. The sun was starting to assert it’s dominance, to finally push the night back, banish the white he knew was going to occupy his mind forever. He sighed.
“Open it up,” he said. They advanced, a crawling line of blue, to do his bidding.
