WastedSavior
A day without sunshine is like, well, night.
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Well, i had an idea for a novel and i decided to write out the first page to see how things would come together. Let me know if you think its worth working on.
It was nearly sunrise when the church bells began to chime, beckoning the inhabitants of the bastion to rouse from their sleep. The wooden floor boards groaned and dust drifted from the room above.
“Four...five…six…” the count came from a muddle of tattered blankets and pillows.
A hand emerged from the mess and tugged its body free. The man sat up and ran his hands through his untidy brown hair. He felt the uneven patches and spoke to himself.
“You really aught to thank that girl for this”
He laughed at how ridiculous he must look, although it was a pleasant change from the matted long hair he was accustomed too. He groaned as he stood up, every movement tugged at the stitches strung across his torso. He ran his finger tips along the large gash that decorated his chest. The scar would always remind him of his failure, and those he’d lost for nothing.
He limped to the window and threw back the fire blackened curtains. The sun peaked over the palisade that encompassed the stronghold. He took in a long breathe hoping to escape the charred taste, but was met with the same charcoal that plagued his quarters. He looked out at the burnt buildings cluttered within the city.
“What a bloody mess” he grinded his teeth in disgust.
The week proceeding this moment was particularly tragic but served its purpose in a sick way. This safe house was becoming over-crowded, room and food was dwindling and the fire and raids cut down the residents considerably. He took a moment to reflect on the cruelty of this thought. Despite his frequent isolation he longed for belonging and had to re-affirm that he still possessed some grate of humanity.
He turned from the window; it was moments before his eyes adjusted to the darkness that consumed his foreboding accommodations. His eyes browsed to a painting of a beach sunset covered in dark ash at the head of his bed. He felt that this image should inspire some kind of emotion; hope, sadness, tranquility, but he felt no weight on his chest.
He walked to the sturdy mahogany desk across the room, he slid his finger tips across the contents; fire darkened books, an empty bottle of ink, and stopping on a broken picture frame. He wiped away the filth with his thumb, a young girl he recognized, her red hair and green eyes and a slightly balding gentleman with a thick mustache and circular spectacles. They seemed happy, her eyes smiled, it stirred something in his chest.
“Was this your father? Was this his room?” he spoke to the girl looking back at him from the frame.
He hesitated for a moment, and then removed the picture from the frame. Stuffing it into his pocket he moved from the desk to the door. He pressed his ear up against it; he could hear a kind voice singing up the stairs, the unmistakable rustling of a broom, and the soft footsteps that followed it around.
.
