Wednesday Stories: Noise
The smokescreen turned everything pink. She swam through the thick smog left behind from the party. The one she missed. On purpose.
“Sorry moe,” she texted, “can’t make it.” She could hear him saying, yea right. But she had better things to do.
The light was coming through the window and as it cut through the smokescreen everything stood still. She stood still for a minute and then spun around. The air around her hung, suspended in space damp and cold seeping through her see-through shirt and skin, gnawing at her elbows. A shiver broke from her core. She crossed her arms and squinted. Coughing, eye-tearing, she realised that the still air was thick, and difficult to push through the small nostrils of her very delicate nose. Something strange crept into her ears. Foreign to her. She shut her eyes to concentrate. A cry. A gasp escaped her lips.
Then again, the cry. A loud screeching cry prying her dear ears open. Each second it pierced deeper.
She stopped and looked around, her eyeballs searching frantically. Her heart was in the middle of her ears as it beats. Out of rhythm. She feels it throb.
Breathe, she told herself, cramming the still damp air into her empty hungry lungs. Ears piqued, as she allowed the screech to slice through the air, through the canals of her ears as she broke into a smile. Celebrating.
And then she laughed, in sync with the screech.
So this is what noise sounds like.