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Nov. 26th, 2006 12:41 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cyranoThis may turn into something later. EDIT: This is possibly the first page of a fictional work.
I'm used to being very self aware. Which made this more disturbing to me than it might otherwise have been. The end of the work night was winding down slowly, and by the time it had become a matter of just watching the monitors and waiting for the last airplane to get a wheels-up time I was the last of our crew of four left in the office. I had one eye on the monitor, one eye on my book, and was quietly marvelling at the fact that I was once again being paid to read my book.
I was even a bit disappointed when the little colored arrow at the end of the Eugene graph changed color and the flight status flipped from 'Out of the Gate' to 'Off the Ground' because it meant that I'd have to put away the book and go out to the parking lot. This would require activity, and I was feeling generally anti-movement. It was midnight, and the end of November, and that meant that even in San Francisco it getting cold. I was going to the gym after work, so that meant that I was wearing the uniform knee-length shorts, and the breeze was even more chilling. The lights were so high up above me that although they started out blazing brilliant white, by the time the light reached the ground it was a foggy dingy yellow. I didn't have far to walk before I could catch the bus to the employee parking garage.
I hopped off the bus and headed up the stairs to the first floor feeling tired and mellow. It had been another twelve hour work day, and I certainly deserved to feel both tired and mellow if I so chose. So one can imagine my surprise when I lurched painfully into the trashcan at the top of the stairs because my body was trying to break into a run without telling me. My throat had tightened, as if I were going to shout, I could feel the pressure behind my eyes which meant I was about to cry, and my fingers were wrapped around the car keys tightly enough to hurt.
My first instinct was that I'd spotted something, that I'd decided I was in danger. But aside from the bus idling below and the far off sound of baggage carts running across the airfield I was the only one generating noise or movement, with my ragged breathing and clumsy footsteps. The momentum from the steel toed boots made it easy to simply let my feet continue to carry me to the car; I fell into the driver's seat and listened to my heart racing. Well, I thought to myself, I'll just sit here a minute and figure out what's going on in my head. And that was an excellent plan until the thrum of the engine caught my attention, and I noticed that the car was in reverse gear and I was preparing to back out of my parking spot. This would best be done with me paying attention, I felt, so I took a quick survey of my surroundings and swung out into the path down to the garage security gate.
I love my car--Bianca. She's a little white Del Sol convertible. The funny thing is, I'm not a big fan of convertibles. With the top off, the wind gets in my eyes and I can't see. I can't hear, neither the car itself nor the stereo, and I can't drive without music. My hair gets all snarled, which admittedly is less of a problem now that it's cropped short and barely goes below my ears. But it gets great mileage, it's small, maneuverable, low to the ground, and sometimes driving it hardly feels like being in a car at all. And I was a little disoriented when I looked around and I was already on the highway headed south. On the stereo was Die Krupps' hiccoughing stuttering cover of 'Numb' which lent itself to the uncomfortable feeling that I was very small and riding the back of something big.
I was not driving. I wasn't certain who was, but he wanted to go a little faster than I cared for, he changed lanes more frequently than I liked, and he had the car heater on uncomfortably high. When he was thinking, I could 'overhear' some of the louder thoughts inside my borrowed head, and he was undecided about where he wanted to go. Someplace desolate, like an empty rocky beach on the ocean where the waves would sweep in and in and in, or the swampy bayshore fen where the breeze would whip around and rattle the grass, or straight home to curl up somewhere close and quiet. Where ever he wanted to go, it was certainly not the gym.
I was not in fear for my life, but I was not entirely certain I shouldn't be. At the same time, I don't think it would have accomplished anything if I had decided that this was an appropriate time to be terrified. I watched the exit for Highway 92 slip by, with just a hint of uncertainty. That would have been the off ramp for a twenty mile drive to the ocean. There was a hesitation at the Bayshore exit, a drift to the right, but in the end whoever it was just wanted to go home.
We smoothly pulled into my parking space, and I had a fistful of mail when I found myself racing up the stairs so I must have stopped at the mailbox. I poked at the deadbolt twice before the key slipped into the lock, and I slipped into my apartment. When I got to the couch, he pulled the plug and was gone. I found myself exhausted, and barely had the energy to pull my mother's ugly orange afghan over me and curl up in the corner before I fell asleep.
I'm used to being very self aware. Which made this more disturbing to me than it might otherwise have been. The end of the work night was winding down slowly, and by the time it had become a matter of just watching the monitors and waiting for the last airplane to get a wheels-up time I was the last of our crew of four left in the office. I had one eye on the monitor, one eye on my book, and was quietly marvelling at the fact that I was once again being paid to read my book.
I was even a bit disappointed when the little colored arrow at the end of the Eugene graph changed color and the flight status flipped from 'Out of the Gate' to 'Off the Ground' because it meant that I'd have to put away the book and go out to the parking lot. This would require activity, and I was feeling generally anti-movement. It was midnight, and the end of November, and that meant that even in San Francisco it getting cold. I was going to the gym after work, so that meant that I was wearing the uniform knee-length shorts, and the breeze was even more chilling. The lights were so high up above me that although they started out blazing brilliant white, by the time the light reached the ground it was a foggy dingy yellow. I didn't have far to walk before I could catch the bus to the employee parking garage.
I hopped off the bus and headed up the stairs to the first floor feeling tired and mellow. It had been another twelve hour work day, and I certainly deserved to feel both tired and mellow if I so chose. So one can imagine my surprise when I lurched painfully into the trashcan at the top of the stairs because my body was trying to break into a run without telling me. My throat had tightened, as if I were going to shout, I could feel the pressure behind my eyes which meant I was about to cry, and my fingers were wrapped around the car keys tightly enough to hurt.
My first instinct was that I'd spotted something, that I'd decided I was in danger. But aside from the bus idling below and the far off sound of baggage carts running across the airfield I was the only one generating noise or movement, with my ragged breathing and clumsy footsteps. The momentum from the steel toed boots made it easy to simply let my feet continue to carry me to the car; I fell into the driver's seat and listened to my heart racing. Well, I thought to myself, I'll just sit here a minute and figure out what's going on in my head. And that was an excellent plan until the thrum of the engine caught my attention, and I noticed that the car was in reverse gear and I was preparing to back out of my parking spot. This would best be done with me paying attention, I felt, so I took a quick survey of my surroundings and swung out into the path down to the garage security gate.
I love my car--Bianca. She's a little white Del Sol convertible. The funny thing is, I'm not a big fan of convertibles. With the top off, the wind gets in my eyes and I can't see. I can't hear, neither the car itself nor the stereo, and I can't drive without music. My hair gets all snarled, which admittedly is less of a problem now that it's cropped short and barely goes below my ears. But it gets great mileage, it's small, maneuverable, low to the ground, and sometimes driving it hardly feels like being in a car at all. And I was a little disoriented when I looked around and I was already on the highway headed south. On the stereo was Die Krupps' hiccoughing stuttering cover of 'Numb' which lent itself to the uncomfortable feeling that I was very small and riding the back of something big.
I was not driving. I wasn't certain who was, but he wanted to go a little faster than I cared for, he changed lanes more frequently than I liked, and he had the car heater on uncomfortably high. When he was thinking, I could 'overhear' some of the louder thoughts inside my borrowed head, and he was undecided about where he wanted to go. Someplace desolate, like an empty rocky beach on the ocean where the waves would sweep in and in and in, or the swampy bayshore fen where the breeze would whip around and rattle the grass, or straight home to curl up somewhere close and quiet. Where ever he wanted to go, it was certainly not the gym.
I was not in fear for my life, but I was not entirely certain I shouldn't be. At the same time, I don't think it would have accomplished anything if I had decided that this was an appropriate time to be terrified. I watched the exit for Highway 92 slip by, with just a hint of uncertainty. That would have been the off ramp for a twenty mile drive to the ocean. There was a hesitation at the Bayshore exit, a drift to the right, but in the end whoever it was just wanted to go home.
We smoothly pulled into my parking space, and I had a fistful of mail when I found myself racing up the stairs so I must have stopped at the mailbox. I poked at the deadbolt twice before the key slipped into the lock, and I slipped into my apartment. When I got to the couch, he pulled the plug and was gone. I found myself exhausted, and barely had the energy to pull my mother's ugly orange afghan over me and curl up in the corner before I fell asleep.
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thanks
Date: 2006-11-28 09:42 pm (UTC)