Something of a departure for me, and feels perhaps like an excerpt from something larger... The prompt was 'Swinging at the end of a rope' and I seem to have taken it very literally.
I'd love to know your thoughts...
He was used to this by now, the gradual greying of the light in the cell. Winter light fading.
He sat on his cot in the usual place. Watched the sky thicken through the small high window.
From the bowels of the building he heard the sound of others. Voices echoed. Doors clanged shut. Orders barked, reverberating down the cold, stone corridors. Metal buckets scraping on floors. Someone calling out in pain - anguish rather than bodily sensation perhaps, but they sounded the same in this dark place.
The distant growl of a group of persons approached, consolidating itself, defining itself into the scuffing of feet, several pairs, moving purposefully. Growing louder. The sound growing denser, seasoned with short vocal snaps. A female voice among the male.
And at its peak the sounds transformed from travelling to entering. The feet shuffling by the door. The viewing panel sliding open then closed. The key entering then turning in the lock. The tumblers falling, handle turning, catch disengaging, hinges grinding. Further, further. Voices opening with the door. Filling the air.
"The prisoner will stand."
He had already gathered his feet beneath him in readiness. Felt the chill of the floor against the skin of his feet. Felt the unwilling muscles of his legs tighten as he pushed himself to standing.
In the gloom two officers had entered. One carried a lantern. Shadows flickered.
"Visitor," said one.
Between the two, she entered. Portly, regal, a ship under sail but seemingly creating the wind rather than being driven before it. Behind her a third officer appeared carrying a wooden chair. He placed it in the centre of the cell facing the prisoner.
The woman glanced at the chair then placed herself upon it.
"The prisoner will sit," the guard barked.
He sat again upon the edge of the cot as the woman arranged herself upon the chair straightened the drape of her coat over her knees. Lifted the gauze veil from her face. Placed her gloved hands precisely in her lap.
She looked at him for some moments. He returned her look but could not bear the accusatory glare. He dropped his eyes, wrangled his fingers together, felt the woman's disapprobation. It triggered sensations in his face. An itch at the side of his nose. His right earlobe needed pulling. The actions were involuntary. His hands went from nose to ear performing the necessary tasks then to his head where it ran across his crown, chasing down the coarse stubble that remained of his hair.
At last she spoke.
'Well?' her voice impatient, hard, unforgiving.
He looked at her. At a loss.
He glanced nervously at the two guards. But he said nothing. She noticed the glance, turned to the guards irritably.
"Leave us," she snapped and immediately turned her penetrating focus to him while she waited for the order to be fulfilled.
He saw the guards flick a glance at each other as if in some silent debate then evidently they came to an agreement. One knocked twice upon the door and the sounds of the opening scattered the silence in the cell.
With the guards now outside, her demeanour slackened a little. Her voice previously imperious, commanding, now coarsened slightly.
"When?"
For the first time he recognised his mother.
"Dawn tomorrow?"
"You fool," she said with venom. "You careless fool!"
He could not look at her. He had anticipated this moment and, in many ways he could not comprehend, had dreaded it more than the events that would take place the following morning.
"I know," he said.
"You got caught."
"It wasn't..."
"Don't speak! You utter fool. Have you learned nothing?"
Still he could not look at her save for the black toes of her shoes.
"Of all the brothers it was you caught. Pah! So now what? Now that I must wash my hands of you..."
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry? You're sorry? It is I who am sorry. It is I who will be left to carry on for who will follow me now? Tell me that. Who? Diccon? No, he is a hothead. Barrett? He is a thick head. It was you I was relying upon. But this was my mistake, my grave mistake. Bah. I have only myself to blame. What species of fool was I to think it could be you?
You?! I should have seen it. Your father was no better. Clumsy. Careless. Even in your very conception he showed that."
"My father? Careless? No, father was a thoughtful man, a considered man."
"Oh, be quiet! I don't mean Harold, for Heaven's sake. Your real father. Wyatt. Wyatt."
"Wyatt? Who is Wyatt? Why did you not tell me this?"
"Ah,what does it matter now? You have ended in the same manner as he, swinging at the end of a rope. And for what? Nothing. Because you were careless. Proud, arrogant and careless. One moment of carelessness and you end like this. Ah, what is to become of me?"
Sent from my Huawei Mobile
I'd love to know your thoughts...
He was used to this by now, the gradual greying of the light in the cell. Winter light fading.
He sat on his cot in the usual place. Watched the sky thicken through the small high window.
From the bowels of the building he heard the sound of others. Voices echoed. Doors clanged shut. Orders barked, reverberating down the cold, stone corridors. Metal buckets scraping on floors. Someone calling out in pain - anguish rather than bodily sensation perhaps, but they sounded the same in this dark place.
The distant growl of a group of persons approached, consolidating itself, defining itself into the scuffing of feet, several pairs, moving purposefully. Growing louder. The sound growing denser, seasoned with short vocal snaps. A female voice among the male.
And at its peak the sounds transformed from travelling to entering. The feet shuffling by the door. The viewing panel sliding open then closed. The key entering then turning in the lock. The tumblers falling, handle turning, catch disengaging, hinges grinding. Further, further. Voices opening with the door. Filling the air.
"The prisoner will stand."
He had already gathered his feet beneath him in readiness. Felt the chill of the floor against the skin of his feet. Felt the unwilling muscles of his legs tighten as he pushed himself to standing.
In the gloom two officers had entered. One carried a lantern. Shadows flickered.
"Visitor," said one.
Between the two, she entered. Portly, regal, a ship under sail but seemingly creating the wind rather than being driven before it. Behind her a third officer appeared carrying a wooden chair. He placed it in the centre of the cell facing the prisoner.
The woman glanced at the chair then placed herself upon it.
"The prisoner will sit," the guard barked.
He sat again upon the edge of the cot as the woman arranged herself upon the chair straightened the drape of her coat over her knees. Lifted the gauze veil from her face. Placed her gloved hands precisely in her lap.
She looked at him for some moments. He returned her look but could not bear the accusatory glare. He dropped his eyes, wrangled his fingers together, felt the woman's disapprobation. It triggered sensations in his face. An itch at the side of his nose. His right earlobe needed pulling. The actions were involuntary. His hands went from nose to ear performing the necessary tasks then to his head where it ran across his crown, chasing down the coarse stubble that remained of his hair.
At last she spoke.
'Well?' her voice impatient, hard, unforgiving.
He looked at her. At a loss.
He glanced nervously at the two guards. But he said nothing. She noticed the glance, turned to the guards irritably.
"Leave us," she snapped and immediately turned her penetrating focus to him while she waited for the order to be fulfilled.
He saw the guards flick a glance at each other as if in some silent debate then evidently they came to an agreement. One knocked twice upon the door and the sounds of the opening scattered the silence in the cell.
With the guards now outside, her demeanour slackened a little. Her voice previously imperious, commanding, now coarsened slightly.
"When?"
For the first time he recognised his mother.
"Dawn tomorrow?"
"You fool," she said with venom. "You careless fool!"
He could not look at her. He had anticipated this moment and, in many ways he could not comprehend, had dreaded it more than the events that would take place the following morning.
"I know," he said.
"You got caught."
"It wasn't..."
"Don't speak! You utter fool. Have you learned nothing?"
Still he could not look at her save for the black toes of her shoes.
"Of all the brothers it was you caught. Pah! So now what? Now that I must wash my hands of you..."
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry? You're sorry? It is I who am sorry. It is I who will be left to carry on for who will follow me now? Tell me that. Who? Diccon? No, he is a hothead. Barrett? He is a thick head. It was you I was relying upon. But this was my mistake, my grave mistake. Bah. I have only myself to blame. What species of fool was I to think it could be you?
You?! I should have seen it. Your father was no better. Clumsy. Careless. Even in your very conception he showed that."
"My father? Careless? No, father was a thoughtful man, a considered man."
"Oh, be quiet! I don't mean Harold, for Heaven's sake. Your real father. Wyatt. Wyatt."
"Wyatt? Who is Wyatt? Why did you not tell me this?"
"Ah,what does it matter now? You have ended in the same manner as he, swinging at the end of a rope. And for what? Nothing. Because you were careless. Proud, arrogant and careless. One moment of carelessness and you end like this. Ah, what is to become of me?"
Sent from my Huawei Mobile
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