Title-less Story Ch. 2

Chapter Two

That night promised half-dreamed thoughts and much sleepless confusion. Not a wink of sleep did I find myself with come morning. "Yawn." I spent the night tossing and turning, confined by the sheets, the walls, the sky. I felt trapped by the nightmarish occurence of the previous evening. The evidence of which still slept on my sofa...

I sat up and stretched, working the kinks out of my neck. I stood and walked to the dresser for my clothes. I pulled out a pair of jeans, worn through the knees from use and boxers and a comfortable t-shirt from the top drawer. I cranked the shower on. The water steamed and scalded my back. The neighbors wouldn't be happy with my unnecessary waste of the hot water but it felt good and eased my nerves. It calmed my mind. "Who could that girl possibly be?" I wondered to myself. "She was in hospital clothes... A nurse maybe? Or a patient.... Where did she come from? What was wrong with her. Did she escape a sanitorium? Anything's possible...."

I pulled on my clothes and with the towel draped about my shoulders slipped into the kitchen for my morning coffee. I put the water and grounds into the machine and set it on its happy, gurgling way. I grabbed the creamer from the refridgerator and two cups from the cabinet. As I turned back to the stove, I noticed a movement from the corner of my eye.

I turned slightly, aiming my eyes in the direction of the living room. She was still sleeping. She mumbled something and turned her face away from mine. In the moment that I had seen her face I noticed that she had small, but distinguishable, frown lines forming on her lovely brow. When she turned back, I saw the lines had disappeared and was dazzled, again, by her impossible beauty. Her features were small, and elegant, set in her alabaster skin like Michelangelo himself had carved her face from marble. My eyes traveled from her face down her shoulders and continued.... My face heated at the memory of changing her into dry clothes the night before and I turned away, choosing rather to pour my now prepared coffee into my mug. I stirred in the creamer and headed out into the living room.

I looked about me at the sizable loft. It had been the last gift my family ever gave me before they chose never to speak to me again. They disagreed with my choice to become an artist and instead alienated me from the family. They left me with this loft, that I now owned in my name, and never spoke to me again, except for the occasional letter from my mother. Cold and as unforgiving as stone but beautiful and flawless as diamond. That was my mother. An ice queen that rained her children with frozen praise. My father was in the army and, to put it gently, strongly disliked me for my decisions.

When I came and told my parents that I had made my final decision about the future I wanted, he had stood from his chair, walked up to me, calm as can be, and struck me across the face. The slap resounded. Echoing in the empty room, in their empty hearts. Pain bloomed like a rose, red and furious, on my cheek and temple. My mother sat perfectly still and ignored us. After the black spots left my vision, I sat up on my elbows and looked up into my father's eyes. He spat onto the ground and said these exact words. "You disappoint me Matthew. I had hoped you would be a strong man."

I never saw them again.

I slight moan startled me from the grave of memories I had slowly been digging for
myself. The girl was stirring. I brought myself out of my reverie and set my attention firmly in the present. She sat up. Her flaxen hair fell over her dipped face.

She lifted her head and opened her eyes.

They were bright, clear blue.

Just as I had imagined.

And then the angel spoke to me.

"Where am I?"