Post by aka Jack Torrence on Feb 21, 2005 9:44:38 GMT -5
Here's the intro to a short novel I've been writing for a while now, which is about half-finished. I haven't edited it yet, but let me know what you think. I'm particularly interested to know if it piqued your curiosity and made you want to read the next chapter. Also, any other constructive criticism would be appreciated.
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A scene at a London tube station on a wintry afternoon. A crowd of bustling commuters being moved away from the platform by fretful railway officials dressed in ugly bright-yellow jackets. The crowd apathetically complies, for the most part--this isn’t the first time something like this has happened here--but a few people manage to catch a glimpse of the cause of the commotion. A chill breeze blows in from somewhere, discarded chocolate bar wrappers and torn scraps of newspaper swirling around the feet of onlookers, like mutant insects. Sprawled out on the freezing concrete floor, in between the dull railway tracks, resembling an oversized, twitching, clothed aborted foetus that’s been spattered with red dye, is me. I’m in pretty bad shape. The bones in my right arm, or what’s left of it, feel like they’ve been skewered by a thousand icy needles, and my skull feels like it’s been smashed by a cricket bat, and it’s shrinking and squeezing my brain like a vice, and when I try to move my head I can only move it a couple of inches before an intense pain forces me to stop. I can just about move my eyes, but it hurts when I do. There’s this weird, irritating humming sound that‘s kind of scary and I can’t tell if it’s coming from inside my head or the tracks above me which, I’m supposing, are still live, easily within reach.
My breath steams in the arctic, frigid air, which seems thick and heavy, and to block certain thoughts and images from my mind--which remind me why I‘m lying here right now, broken on the tracks--I force myself to stare at the tiled ceiling which, in its drab uniform whiteness, has a soothing effect. Voices call over to me from the platform, asking me if I can hear them, if I’m alright. Don’t move, they say.
Right. I’d laugh at that if I could remember how.
Minutes later (I don’t know how many, did I pass out again?) two blokes---medics---are kneeling down next to me. They’re saying, can I hear them. Just lay still, they’re telling me. They fumble around for a bit, put one of those neck brace things on me, inject me with something, probably a painkiller, and as they’re doing this for some reason I find myself trying to whistle a tune. It’s a sad, familiar tune, but I can’t put a name to it. But it makes me kind of sad, it has a hidden, secret meaning that eludes me right now, and all I want to do is get out of here, and that’s what I tell to one of the medic blokes and he says not to worry I’ll be okay. Next thing I know, I’m strapped down on a stretcher and as I’m being wheeled out passed bystanders and police, out towards daylight and a deliverance I’m only half-grateful for, I spot a man’s face in the crowd that means something to me and it jolts me into remembering why I came here today, what it was that I came here to do.
As the ambulance races towards the hospital with what seems like an unnecessary urgency, the painkillers kick in, shockingly, unexpectedly, and the massive pain in my arm slowly subsides like a dream, my eyes suddenly heavier like invisible fingers are gently pinching them together. I imagine primly dressed news reporters and journalists turning up at the station, interviewing witnesses, asking the obvious questions, getting so many facts but understanding so very little. The likely headlines flash through my mind: Man Attempts Suicide in Underground; Narrow Escape in Subway Horror; and, I‘m sure there are journalists droll enough to come up with this one: Man Lucky Enough to Miss His Train.
So many facts but so little understanding.
We’re almost at the hospital now.
I’d gone to that tube station intending to end one thing while starting another.
I went to that tube station knowing that those railway lines would be splashed with someone’s blood.
The thing is, I hadn’t planned on it being mine.
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A scene at a London tube station on a wintry afternoon. A crowd of bustling commuters being moved away from the platform by fretful railway officials dressed in ugly bright-yellow jackets. The crowd apathetically complies, for the most part--this isn’t the first time something like this has happened here--but a few people manage to catch a glimpse of the cause of the commotion. A chill breeze blows in from somewhere, discarded chocolate bar wrappers and torn scraps of newspaper swirling around the feet of onlookers, like mutant insects. Sprawled out on the freezing concrete floor, in between the dull railway tracks, resembling an oversized, twitching, clothed aborted foetus that’s been spattered with red dye, is me. I’m in pretty bad shape. The bones in my right arm, or what’s left of it, feel like they’ve been skewered by a thousand icy needles, and my skull feels like it’s been smashed by a cricket bat, and it’s shrinking and squeezing my brain like a vice, and when I try to move my head I can only move it a couple of inches before an intense pain forces me to stop. I can just about move my eyes, but it hurts when I do. There’s this weird, irritating humming sound that‘s kind of scary and I can’t tell if it’s coming from inside my head or the tracks above me which, I’m supposing, are still live, easily within reach.
My breath steams in the arctic, frigid air, which seems thick and heavy, and to block certain thoughts and images from my mind--which remind me why I‘m lying here right now, broken on the tracks--I force myself to stare at the tiled ceiling which, in its drab uniform whiteness, has a soothing effect. Voices call over to me from the platform, asking me if I can hear them, if I’m alright. Don’t move, they say.
Right. I’d laugh at that if I could remember how.
Minutes later (I don’t know how many, did I pass out again?) two blokes---medics---are kneeling down next to me. They’re saying, can I hear them. Just lay still, they’re telling me. They fumble around for a bit, put one of those neck brace things on me, inject me with something, probably a painkiller, and as they’re doing this for some reason I find myself trying to whistle a tune. It’s a sad, familiar tune, but I can’t put a name to it. But it makes me kind of sad, it has a hidden, secret meaning that eludes me right now, and all I want to do is get out of here, and that’s what I tell to one of the medic blokes and he says not to worry I’ll be okay. Next thing I know, I’m strapped down on a stretcher and as I’m being wheeled out passed bystanders and police, out towards daylight and a deliverance I’m only half-grateful for, I spot a man’s face in the crowd that means something to me and it jolts me into remembering why I came here today, what it was that I came here to do.
As the ambulance races towards the hospital with what seems like an unnecessary urgency, the painkillers kick in, shockingly, unexpectedly, and the massive pain in my arm slowly subsides like a dream, my eyes suddenly heavier like invisible fingers are gently pinching them together. I imagine primly dressed news reporters and journalists turning up at the station, interviewing witnesses, asking the obvious questions, getting so many facts but understanding so very little. The likely headlines flash through my mind: Man Attempts Suicide in Underground; Narrow Escape in Subway Horror; and, I‘m sure there are journalists droll enough to come up with this one: Man Lucky Enough to Miss His Train.
So many facts but so little understanding.
We’re almost at the hospital now.
I’d gone to that tube station intending to end one thing while starting another.
I went to that tube station knowing that those railway lines would be splashed with someone’s blood.
The thing is, I hadn’t planned on it being mine.
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