Fan Fiction ❯ Depth Perception ❯ The Abyss ( Chapter 3 )

Hi again! Hope you're enjoying reading it as much as I am writing it. I know things are getting quite confusing at the moment but I will connect the dots … eventually! The opening quote is from The Moon and the Ewe Tree by Sylvia Plath (My Favourite poet!), am I a quote junkie or what!?

 

Chapter 3: The Abyss

 

“This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.”

 

“Hello, Mr Lacey? Are you still there?”, “Yeah, Kenith call me Kenith”, “Listen when you're finished with the gun just get rid of it … chuck it off the pier of something, I don't want anything else to do with this”, “Mmmm … Thanks for everything, I know it wasn't exactly easy and I wish that things could have turned out better, for both of us, anyway … bye”. The phone rings off the hook.

 

When I was born this city it didn't even have a substantial road leading into it, but there was still too many people there. I need an island, a place to express the unexpressed. A place to shout out in the open with no one to catch the sound of my voice, carried on the wind. Not this settled urban life, the life that of my forefathers have experienced since medieval times. When people say “freedom” I don't think the ever quite mean it, what I mean, at least, is freedom from outside interference

 

Nightly I now see a person, indistinguishable, shrouded in shadows, seated across the road from my apartment. The face is not visible but the feeling that he, she… is gazing at me, peering through the curtains with those invisible yet clearly apparent eyes; this feeling is now ever present. There is resonance, a sense that this person is even somehow able to see into vast expanse of your very soul. My apartment is now bathed with an ominous tension due to this new revelation and for the first time since the accident I genuinely feel at risk.

 

I go about my daily business, trying to cope with prior events, I try to normalise eating and sleeping patterns, all to no avail. At night I now remain ever watchful, observing the room through closed eyelids, even under the guise of sleep. A drifting sense of paranoia has been derived from my newfound stalker, or maybe the stalker is only a figment of this feeling? This inability to interpret my own emotions baffles me as I am normally in touch with myself, in unison with the unseen waves of my mind.

 

Days start to turn into weeks and springtime begins to steadily approach with its false promises of a new beginning, sprouting up with the snowdrops from the window-box, a birthday present from Abigail. I've now lost track of the number of days since my last visit to the hospital, unable to bear the sickening stench and religious icons posted uniformly above each bed, the visiting priest who I told to “fuck of out of it”, half expecting a laugh to rise up from the bed and turn to see her face re-animated in the process. Even not even being able to bare witness to this, this state that she is presently in brings me more guilt, which in turn slips me further into the depths of my working day, a never ending abyss. After detesting it for my whole life I finally succumb to a wish for some sort of normality.

 

Friends of the family, neighbours even children who I've somehow been acquainted with, have almost all been in some sort of car related accident. Why couldn't I just escape with whiplash or a laceration, like a normal person? Abigail always said to me, when I questioned her, “That's why I love you Kenith, you're not a normal type of guy”. But being abnormal, a freak, whatever you may consider me to be, does not explain how a car, travelling below 60 kilometres per hour could suddenly swerve off the road without the driver's recollection as to the cause of the accident; also being relatively lucid for the entire experience I cannot rationalise this myself.

 

Unable to paint another stroke I eventually leave the confines of the apartment, throwing on my uniform black coat but then discover that I'm unable to decide on where to go. I wander round, taking various random roads, not even considering where I'll eventually end up, this was never of any concern in the past either. While walking briskly shadows cast by the semi-detached houses streak by, against the face of the cracked pavement, decorated with all varieties of multi-coloured chewing-gum. The silence is broken by an enthusiastic, “Hello!”, not even recalling the person greeting me I give a forced smile and carry on, yet immediately after the absence of my unknown acquaintance there is still the sense of a presence wafting in the air, it remains for a moment, eventually vanishing with a gust of cool air, it prompts me to move on. The time on my watch now reads 18:08 and 18 seconds, everything always seems to be even whenever I glance at my watch, like a sub-conscious routine. The road is long; shadows and slumber slowly ensue…

 

…After finding myself in the doorway of my apartment-block, long after nightfall, the thought crosses my mind and lips simultaneously, “What the hell just happened to me?”. The realisation also immediately occurs that the hall door lays a fraction ajar. I approach it, panting heavily and gently nudge the entrance-way with my trembling fist. I enter. While proceeding slowly up the spiral staircase a light source, coming from my landing is instantaneously apparent. The light source, shining against the banisters, casts winding shadows along the painted emulsion wall. As I move upwards I soon see that door 24, my door, is hanging on its hinges, banging against the wall due to the draught wafting from the air-conditioning system. I enter the flat, only to realise the handle has smashed the glass of my framed Van Gough print, a present from my long deceased father; he was always sorely unmissed. Ironically this was the only visible damage evident in the flat. Surely this must have been some sort of a burglary as there are no obvious signs of vandalism, but everything seems to remain in its original place, untouched. Again I glance at my watch, now reading 01:26 and 55 seconds, for once uneven. What had happened in the previously elapsed time-frame?

 

I collapse on the settee and drift off into an almost anesthetised slumber, the shock being almost too much to handle. Seconds seem to have elapsed since I drifted off but I am instantly awakened by a banging window in the bathroom. After pulling myself up off the sofa, I enter the toilet and splash some water on my face to help me absorb what has just occurred. I throw a towel over the entirety of my head and wrap it around, ceasing to breathe. Eventually when I finally muster up the courage to take a breath, it feels sickeningly warm and musty through the thickness of make-shift wrap, which I then lower gradually from my face; revealing my bloodshot eyes in the mirror.

 

But now a twisted expression, ridden with intense fright is apparent; contained within the glass. First hand I get to see my impression of the red writing upon the surface of the mirror. Staggering back and collapsing into the bathtub I realise it reads;

 

“Put the bitch to sleep, SHE'S a fucking waste of time and space…” (The writing then trails off).

 

The mirror is inscribed with Abigail's lipstick, the very same one I had left down to the hospital, with her clothes, around three weeks ago. The shock overtakes me and I run towards the open window to try to locate some sort of culprit of this heinous act. I throw the frame violently out of my way; the clouded glass cracks against the outside wall and shard cascades onto the street below, emanating a feint crack on impact to the footpath. “You BASTARD, who did this” I shout desperately out the opening while scanning the street below for any signs of life. Across the way the council block begins to light up from the unorthodox commotion, but this doesn't deter me in the slightest, I make out the image of a person proceeding down the alleyway which separates the opposite street. A man's figure is clearly visible in the newly acquired light.

 

Him.

 

I frantically fumble with the phone to dial the police but while doing this I also consider the Abigail could or could have already been endangered. Hastily conveying my details to the operator, while dashing down the stairs; cordless phone pressed tightly against my ear, I try drastically to hail a taxi, with no success. The run to the hospital would be long and arduous, over two miles, but after the accident I at least owed her this, one last favour.

 

I begin to sprint. The cars dotted along the street begin to become continuations of themselves as my pace quickens. I soon veer off the main street onto a back-road;

The street is un-lit and now my only remaining guide is the vibrant moonlight beaming down upon the reflective white of the surrounding industrial buildings. The rapid jog is beginning to impair my ability to breathe. Each stride excessively drains me, spilling whatever life-blood I still retain onto the cold surface of the pathway but I continue on and listen to the rhythm of my footsteps to avert my mind from the onset of fatigue. A rush to my head is conducted, like static rising from the ground, upon the next bend. Finally my destination starts to slowly manifest itself before my eyes wincing eyes.

 

Upon arrival at the hospital I can faintly taste thin blood seeping from my parched, dry throat; I burst in the front door and try desperately to gain one last burst of momentum while climbing the flight of stairs. Averting the watchful gaze of the night porter, I soon begin to cough uncontrollably upon on arrival to the third floor, clutching my glands to try to alleviate some of the pain. The corridor being deserted I try to continue my hurried pace to the last door on the right, Abigail's ward. After bursting through the swinging doors the truth becomes agonisingly apparent, Abigail is no longer there. Inside my chest I feel my heart skip a beat and rapidly increase in speed, sending another blood rush to my brain.

 

Feeling a hand on my shoulder I swiftly turn, it is the night-matron; “I'm sorry sir but visiting hours are over…” she dictates in an authoritarian tone; “Where is she?” I shout, “Where is she?!?”, The woman has gained a look of shock, now breaking across her face “Who?” she utters; “I'm sorry sir please calm down or I'll have to call security”, becoming more irritated I begin to shout louder, “Abigail McKenna, the woman who was in this bed. TELL ME NOW”, I desperately begin to advance on her, “Gone ages ago” she mumbles under her tongue while backing away; “SECURITY” emerges a sudden scream. “Please tell me where she is, SOMEONE HELP ME!”, I again plead in desperation.

 

After this moment all became blank, the only thoughts I could recall from then on was the odorous smell of hospital disinfectant and the firm guiding hands of the security staff.

I think that Abigail was also on my mind but my memories are beginning to vary and change, on a constant basis now, fading day by day. My awakening would soon be the real challenge to come…

 

 

That's the end of another one! I'm really struggling to get the lengths well past 2000 words per chapter at the moment, but I think they work quite well short anyway! I hope you're enjoying the story and please review too. The plot will become clearer eventually… and then unclear again! Hope you're enjoying it and I'll post a few more chapters soon, I have 21 so far.