NaNo prologue!
Nov. 2nd, 2005 05:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bliumchikI have officially started NaNo! (I mean, I started it yesterday but that was in longhand). 509 words. About a third of what I need daily, but I haven't typed all of what I had up yet. We shall see!
I was standing in snow, and one of us was bleeding. Dark red on pale white, every drop made a light pattering sound not entirely unlike rain. The remains of the scout post were less than two hundred metres ahead, if Petrov didn’t collapse in the interim. Shelter, what little that burnt out shack would provide, a place to rest and bandage wounds.
We walked-
We-
I awoke.
The shrill screech of the alarm threaded needles through my eyelids, battering me into consciousness. I groaned and reached for it blindly. My hand struck the corner of the bedside table, and the resultant flinch knocked the infernal machine clear off the tabletop and under my bed, still beeping insistently.
Oh, bugger. Now I had to get up. I stumbled to my feet, leaving the bedsheets tangled and sweaty – the first real summer night had passed in a haze of mosquitoes and sweat and, well, haze. Leaving the alarm to its own devices, I staggered into the bathroom and gripped the sink, staring at my red-eyed features in the mirror.
Red eyes. Oh, that would go down well at work. As I fumbled for the razor I wondered if I had any of those drops the TV advertised around the house. I’d probably have to make do with sunglasses. Reminding myself never to drink again (again), I splashed water on my face and hoped my shaky hands wouldn’t result in too many injuries.
I needn’t have worried about my hands. The razor was navigating my chin when suddenly
I was standing in snow
I was standing in
I was
Blood. Petrov’s blood, soaked through the makeshift rag bandage, dripping onto the snow whenever he moved his arm as he stumbled, grey-faced, along the track ahead of me, trying to step in Anders’ footprints to minimize effort. The snow crunched beneath our boots, the only sound in the still morning air. The only sound except that of Petrov’s blood, dripping-
Blood.
My lip was bleeding.
I dropped the razor on the bathroom floor with a clatter, lurch back against the bathroom door, which clicked shut. The handle dug into my back, a reminder of the solidity of the world around me, as was the sweat running down my chest in the already-hot summer air and the sharp pain of shaving foam on my cut lip.
It was not snowing. It was the start of summer. I held onto that fact fervently as memory of my dream came rushing back.
Dreams and flashbacks. Flashbacks are recurring sensory or emotional experiences that happen independently of the initial experience or event. A hallucination, as it were, of a traumatic experience in the past. Vietnam Vets with Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome get them sometimes – they think they’re back in ‘Nam, and they’re being bombed, or whatever. I was having flashbacks of blood and snow, and I should probably get counseling.
There was only one problem.
I had never seen snow in my life. I’d never been outside of Sydney. And I didn’t know anyone called Petrov.
I was standing in snow, and one of us was bleeding. Dark red on pale white, every drop made a light pattering sound not entirely unlike rain. The remains of the scout post were less than two hundred metres ahead, if Petrov didn’t collapse in the interim. Shelter, what little that burnt out shack would provide, a place to rest and bandage wounds.
We walked-
We-
I awoke.
The shrill screech of the alarm threaded needles through my eyelids, battering me into consciousness. I groaned and reached for it blindly. My hand struck the corner of the bedside table, and the resultant flinch knocked the infernal machine clear off the tabletop and under my bed, still beeping insistently.
Oh, bugger. Now I had to get up. I stumbled to my feet, leaving the bedsheets tangled and sweaty – the first real summer night had passed in a haze of mosquitoes and sweat and, well, haze. Leaving the alarm to its own devices, I staggered into the bathroom and gripped the sink, staring at my red-eyed features in the mirror.
Red eyes. Oh, that would go down well at work. As I fumbled for the razor I wondered if I had any of those drops the TV advertised around the house. I’d probably have to make do with sunglasses. Reminding myself never to drink again (again), I splashed water on my face and hoped my shaky hands wouldn’t result in too many injuries.
I needn’t have worried about my hands. The razor was navigating my chin when suddenly
I was standing in snow
I was standing in
I was
Blood. Petrov’s blood, soaked through the makeshift rag bandage, dripping onto the snow whenever he moved his arm as he stumbled, grey-faced, along the track ahead of me, trying to step in Anders’ footprints to minimize effort. The snow crunched beneath our boots, the only sound in the still morning air. The only sound except that of Petrov’s blood, dripping-
Blood.
My lip was bleeding.
I dropped the razor on the bathroom floor with a clatter, lurch back against the bathroom door, which clicked shut. The handle dug into my back, a reminder of the solidity of the world around me, as was the sweat running down my chest in the already-hot summer air and the sharp pain of shaving foam on my cut lip.
It was not snowing. It was the start of summer. I held onto that fact fervently as memory of my dream came rushing back.
Dreams and flashbacks. Flashbacks are recurring sensory or emotional experiences that happen independently of the initial experience or event. A hallucination, as it were, of a traumatic experience in the past. Vietnam Vets with Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome get them sometimes – they think they’re back in ‘Nam, and they’re being bombed, or whatever. I was having flashbacks of blood and snow, and I should probably get counseling.
There was only one problem.
I had never seen snow in my life. I’d never been outside of Sydney. And I didn’t know anyone called Petrov.
