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| Moonlight fell upon his face, pouring in from the large windows which dominated the wall at the far side of the Study. Bare branches reached up into a cloudless sky, cutting jagged lines across the face of the full moon. He lifted his head off the hard wood of the desk; mahogany. It had been an anniversary gift from his son a few years back. It was large and sturdy, but incredibly heavy. It had taken a whole work crew to get it up here. It now sat in it's final resting place, gathering papers and dusk. An old clock sat on the right-hand corner, antique and busted. It had sat there at three o'clock for the last dozen years. He stood, his wooden chair and back both complaining with twin groans. The chair had come with the desk and had a heavy, medieval look to it. A wave of dizziness washed over him as he stood, looking about at the wooden-paneled walls. He didn't remember falling asleep, nor did he remember it even being night. Yet, the moon sat high over the flat plain outside his window, and his cheek assured him he had been sleeping. With a sigh, he walked over to the door, a thick piece of wood, like everything else in the study. No point in turning on the light. He grasped the brass handle, turned it a quarter-turn down, and pulled. He woke with a start, the wind outside rattling the large windows which dominated the wall at the far end of the study. Inky black clouds roiled outside, sweeping above the rolling hills and threatening rain. It promised to be a violent storm, but the sturdy walls would keep it out; would protect him and the books which lined every side of the room. His neck popped as he lifted his bed off of his desk, an odd construct of metal and plastic which his wife had given him as a birthday present. It served little purpose, other than a reading table; it's only accouterments were a desk lamp, the book he had been reading, and an old and busted clock. The thing had been stuck on six o'clock for the last dozen years, but he couldn't bring himself to throw it out. It occurred to him that he didn't recall falling asleep, but the pins and needles along his arm violently attested to the fact. He stood, grasping the thickly padded arms of his leather chair for support, and headed for the door. No point in turning on the light. He grasped the handle, pressing down on the latch, and pulled. It dawned on him that he had been a sleep, sitting awkwardly in his high-backed chair. He didn't remember falling asleep, but the drool dribbled down the upholstery was embarrassing proof of the fact. He scrubbed his face, laughing that it was probably things like that which had kept him from ever getting married. He rubbed his arms vigorously, struck by the chill of the room. The fireplace lay dark and cold along one of the four stone walls; it must have gone out as he slept. If there had been another source of light he would have turned it on. He hated walking around anywhere in the dark. He shuffled through some papers littering the floor, and bumped a little table, knocking an antique clock to the ground. No matter; it had been stuck on four o'clock for the last dozen years. He grasped the wooden handle and pulled. "Is he your grandfather?" the nurse said as she recorded the monitor readings and checked the tubes attached to the old man. He was pale and bony, and his breath came raggedly through the plastic breathing apparatus. The white sheets, pulled up to his chin, had not moved except for washings. "No," said the young man sitting in the green chair at the foot of the bed, "he's my father." "Oh," she said. And then, picking up the patient chart, "Edward Fulton. What happened to him? The charts never really say." "We don't know. He was in his study late one night, and was found the next morning, collapsed in the hall just outside. The doctors said he must have been frightened into shock by something. He's been in a coma since." "Oh." said the nurse, who finished her work and left, closing the door quietly behind her. The son looked out the window, where stars glittered behind a New Moon. The clock on the wall read 5am. |
(This piece was inspired, mostly subconsciously, by This Piece. I didn't notice all of the similarities until I'd re-read them both; I'd only intended to reproduce the cyclic nature of the piece. This is also my submission for Louis' Fiction Contest. If you've ever written anything, you should enter this.)
