/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.4538129]

Hello /lit/, I started writing this the other day and was wondering whether it was worth continuing.
Pic unrelated
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It was just him, alone in his room. The mist of loneliness deadened the room around him, numbing him, threatening to seep into his bones. He vaguely noticed his mother bustling around in the background, but to him it sounded lost and far away, as if he was asleep or she was a ghost. The room was cold and damp, but rather thank wakening him, it pushed him further into a trance as he got colder. He just sat there, and sat there for hours. His trance was only interrupted to go downstairs and get a cup of tea. He had been called down for dinner, but he forgot almost immediately afterwards. It was as if no-one else existed; all that was real was the numbing cold and self-absorption.

He wasn't thinking about anything special though, all he thought about was the recurring, blunt phrase, “he's dead now”.

To him, it felt like it had happened just an hour ago. The phone call, the look of absolute pale white horror on his mother's face, the pit-of-your-stomach dread that spread into his body like a poison, stopping all his organs from functioning, creating the numbing cold that was to be the setting for his despair.

He punched the wall. It felt strangely dreamlike, strangely technicolour, but the pain seemed to revive him. He punched it again. His knuckles were grazed, cracked and bleeding, and it felt good; so much better than the numb of not-being. The pain spread across the back of his hand like wildfire, and his eyes filled with tears. He didn't know if they were tears of pain, sadness, anger, or why they had come so suddenly. He just knew that at this moment, all he wanted to do was sit and cry, nursing his hand, and cry and keep on crying.

Bleary-eyed, he woke up after maybe an hour or two. His mother was no longer bustling about downstairs, and the silence satisfied him. There was something full; something full and rich about the silence that gratified his ears.

Outside his bedroom window, a single street lamp blinked on and off in the gloomy November street. The orange light enticed him closer, and he opened the window to take a gulp of fresh night air. It felt refreshing; the coolness and cleanness came in welcome contrast to his thoughts. He gazed up at the night sky, past the hesitant orange glow of the street light and into the clouds that hung above like cobwebs. A wind blew them slowly across the sky, revealing a deep starless canopy as if it was a prize exhibition in an art gallery.

Something about the orange street lamp caught his eye again. It blinked at him as if surprised. Again. On. Off. On. Off. The rhythmic periodicity hypnotised him. His eyes lost focus as he stared at the winking light. All that was left was a flickering orange blur.

Orange. Flickering.

Like fire.

He didn't want to think about that any more.

[Anonymous No.4539912]

Way too much detail, get to the point, we don't care about a broken street lamp.

[Anonymous No.4540552]

>>4538129
I like the rhythm, continue