Chapter 1

I've decided to post my first draft of a story that is waiting inside my head to be born. This is just a short beginning, will add more next time:-)

By the way, I have another blog www.tipofthequill.wordpress.com if anyone is wondering there are some similarities. Yes, it is still me and the fact I have started two blogs at the same time just shows how many lives I am living. Only in my head/imagination, though.

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Last stand

He remembered the first day in sanatorium very well; in fact, he was more than sure that picture will stay with him until he draw his last breath. He would smell the rotting damp of leaves lying on the dirty tiles on a ground floor. He would still be able to feel the cracks (roughness) under his fingertips when, while walking along the corridor, he was running his hand along the wall as though he was trying to hang on to something permanent. The experience of coming somewhere new has worn off as this was supposed to be his final place; at least that’s what he’s been told by an old social worker. As a final place, he hoped himself he’ll survive without any major catastrophes.

He kept his eyes down as he was deliberately trying to avoid a direct contact with other children, who were poking their heads out of their rooms. Each wooden door had its own clear glass inset for carers to be able to keep an eye on as many kids as possible without having to open single one. To those experienced ones it took only one short glance to be sure nobody has gone missing, especially at bed times when it happened to be the most critical time for any escapee to do a runner. And today wasn’t an exception. Chris was following his guide closely almost stepping on her heals how near he was. It wasn’t the first time he felt this heavy pain sitting tightly on his chest and making him totally helpless and out of breath. He tried not to breath too deeply for he knew it would make him feel sick to inhale this well known institutional stench he found everywhere else in the past. He was very close to passing out from the lack of air in his lungs when the carer interrupted his thoughts.

“Here we are, there,” she said and pointed to the closed door with a number 9.

Chris has nearly collided with the carer’s rounded body when she came to a halt. He looked up to read her expression but her face did not let out any clues; just like a stone carving, but not quite admirable.

“In you go, son, come on, I haven’t got all the time in the world, as you might think. You are clearly not alone here,” she said and gave him a nudge to make him move.

‘Clearly not’, he thought to himself, while entering a room which from now on was his only place he should call home. As if.

The room was small, plain, walls painted in off white with many scratches left by its previous occupiers. He could read all sorts of messages such as ‘hell could not be worse’ or ‘life sucks’ and at that moment, he could not but agree with those statements. The window was high up so he had to stand on his toes to take a glimpse of outside world, beige curtains had few tears at the bottom and he could smell a mothball. The carer left soundlessly for when he turned around he found he was alone with a trunk half empty which contained all his possessions. He looked around and finally drew a deep breath; he was on his own again. It took him exactly four steps to reach an old Victorian cupboard and another three steps to stand next to the sink. He could barely turn around and dragged the trunk across the wooden floor to the bed and when he opened it, he would have to jump over to get to the door again. His eyes started to burn and soon his face was wet; how many times he wiped his cheeks in the past, he could not remember.