Hello there. I know I've been terribly lazy posting here, but I didn't really have anything to say up until now! And so, without further ado, here is a sample of what I've written so far for my 2010 Nanowrimo.
Dante’s hand was trembling. Sighing with frustration, he shoved it in his pocket and made his way down the snowy sidewalk to his apartment building. The sky was a stony grey and the streets were speckled with tiny pinpoints of light; stars, reflected from The World. Dante stepped off the sidewalk and crushed one with his heavy winter boot. It flickered. For an instant, it appeared as if it just might go out. The light grew back, stronger than it was before. No, of course it wouldn’t die. Nothing here would.
Dante’s doorman smiled a pointy-toothed smile at Dante as he stomped the snow off his boots and entered the warmth of the building. It didn’t matter how high the heat was, though; Dante’s skin was still cold to the touch. It made him feel like a living corpse. He walked up the three flights of stairs that led to his apartment, 412A, and tried to remember what it felt like to be warm. He couldn’t remember. It hadn’t been all that long ago really; only about three months since his last birthday. Three months of constant winter, inside his body and out.
The floor containing apartment 412A was empty. The single flickering light bulb that illuminated the narrow, carpeted hall would never be changed. It would remain there, flickering, for all time. The delicate web created by a long-gone spider was interwoven around the light’s thick glass covering. Dante sometimes wondered whether The World’s inhabitant of 412A had a dim light that flickered and an old spider’s web on the ceiling too.
Even though Dante had lived in 412A for the past five years, he didn’t consider it his home. It was only his dwelling, a place where he could rest at night and take refuge from the cruel world outside.
Dante kicked his boots off and placed them directly over the heating vent so they would be dry before his early morning outing. He opened the refrigerator in the corner and found nothing. It didn’t matter anyway. He shrugged off his jacket and slipped into his bad. He pulled the covers up to his chin, even though they would never make him warm. Dante wondered if he would ever be warm again. He hoped death was warm. A restless sleep overcame him and he dreamt of sunny days.
The next morning at precisely five o’clock, both inhabitants of 412A awoke to the incessant ringing of their respective alarm clocks. The man who lived in the World rolled out of his warm bed silently, trying not to disturb his wife. She slept on a he curled his meticulously groomed mustache, straightened his pinstripe tie, and placed his silver rimmed glasses upon the brim of his large, lumpy nose. He gave the dog a quick pat before heading out the door at exactly six-thirty a.m. He was a watch salesman and valued punctuality above all other things.
Dante did not value much of anything, must less punctuality. When his alarm clock went off, he hit the snooze button, but it was already too late. His dream wouldn’t come back, no matter how hard he tried.
His coat was sprawled across the chair where he had left it the night before. Dante shrugged into it, pulled his boots on, and didn’t bother locking the door behind him. The blinking light in the hall was still blinking. The doorman was still grinning. Everything was the same.
Dante walked down the frozen streets. He preferred traveling on foot to driving, especially in the winter. He enjoyed seeing his breath in frigid streets. It reminded him that he was still breathing.
The building he arrived at was strangely circular. The entire outer wall was made of spotless glass. It made Dante feel like a trapped animal; no corners to hide in. No way out. There was a woman at the check-in desk with black hair and a soft expression. She handed Dante a sign-in sheet which he filled out and handed back to her. The waiting room looked too sterile. The walls were white with little golden flecks that shined when the florescent light hit them in just the right way. “The doctor will be right with you,” said the woman at the desk. Dante nodded and took the seat farthest away from the wall of window panes. He slouched in his hard plastic chair and pulled his black fedora hat down over his face as far as it would go.
The room was almost empty; the only other living beings inside it were a young woman wrapped tightly in a dirty shawl and a man who had three small children with him. The man was completely flustered; the children kept trying to press their faces to the windows to look out at the cold, bleak morning. Dante wondered why they weren’t in school. He glanced down at the magazines left on the table for waiting patients to look at. The cover of the first one boasted a nearly-naked woman whose ribs protruded from her magenta dress. Her hair floated out around her and her face was plastered with a blindingly white smile. “Have better sex!” and “Stars Without Makeup- Pictures Inside!” the cover blared in capital letters that took up nearly the entire page. Dante grunted in disgust and placed the magazine face down on the table. An ad for a diet operation stared up at him.
“Sir?” The nurse had apparently been calling his name. He got up and followed her inside the heavy oaken doors and back into the small office. “The doctor will be here in a moment. “Sure.” Dante noted her tiny waist as she walked out of the room. He imagined the doctor who employed her cutting into her soft abdominal flesh with a scalpel and tightly securing the plastic band that would make her feel full before she had a bite of food. He imagined the nurse getting smaller and smaller until she didn’t exist at all anymore.
He stared at the walls. They were filled with posters of the inside of the body and pictures of smiling families. The worst part was noticing how real they looked. Dante knew that most people walking down the street actually did look like the people in the photographs. Constantly smiling, glowing skin, and always very, very thin.
The door opened and a bald-headed doctor with thick glasses walked in. “Hello.” “Hello,” repeated Dante. He wondered when people stopped talking. Dante took off his coat and pulled his shirt over his head. The doctor whipped out a stethoscope from some mysterious place and placed the circular end on Dante’s chest. “This might feel a bit cold,” the doctor said. Dante could tell he had said it hundreds, if not thousands of times before. The doctor listened for a few seconds, grunted, and then spirited the stethoscope away again. “So,” he began, “how long has it been since we last saw one another?” He looked down at the chart in his hands. “Two weeks.” “Ah, right. Well then, sir, any luck finding her yet?” “No, not yet. I’ve been going to the Searching Pond every day.” He shrugged, “Maybe she doesn’t even exist. Maybe she’s dead.” The doctor put his hand on Dante’s shoulder. Dante fought the urge to flinch. “She’s out there somewhere, son. Keep looking. I’m sure you’ll find her.” “Yes.” “Just keep doing your best. In the meantime, the symptoms you have will remain manageable, but I’m not sure how long that will last.” Dante wanted to laugh. How could he call the torture he was going through manageable? But he kept silent. The doctor wheeled his chair over to a cabinet and withdrew a syringe wrapped in sterile plastic. He retrieved a small vial from the pocket of his white coat and unwrapped the needle with one hand. It glistened almost six inches long in the florescent light.
So, if anyone bothers to read all this, you should totally tell me what you think. If it makes any since, first of all, because I'm pretty sure it's just incoherant ramblings.
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