The Woman in Glass pgs. 20-27

Warren awoke to the sound of his own guttural screaming, and leapt in his armchair, knocking a glass of whiskey to the ground, which shattered at his feet.  He smelt the alcohol wafting up to him, and stared with heavy breathing as the booze permeated the rug.  He tried to catch his breath, and a wave of cigarette cough overcame him, and he hacked and clutched at his chest.

He finished his coughing fit and rubbed his eyes with his open palms.  His breath shuddered for a moment, and then he calmed himself, slowing his heart.  He looked down at his feet at the whiskey, soaking into the carpet.  Rebecca would have had a fit if she saw this.  She hated it when he spilt something on the carpet.  He saw that his glass was broken slightly, a few slivers and shards glittered slightly as he moved, picking up the dim light from the lamp.  He stooped and began to pick up the pieces.

“Shit.” He said as a piece of glass sliced his palm ever so slightly.  He grimaced and finished the task, cupping the debris in his hands.  He hurried into the kitchen and placed it in the garbage, suddenly aware of a slight throbbing in his head.  That last whiskey must have done more damage to him than he had originally thought.  He grabbed some paper towels and returned to the living room, soaking up the strong smelling liquid.  It was too late to really save it, the alcohol had soaked in rather deep and would leave a stain, but he tried anyway and managed to prevent it from being worse than it was.

He tossed the soiled paper away and stood still for a moment in the kitchen, putting a hand to his head.  Faced the choice of getting some medication or another drink, he chose to keep drinking.  He got another glass from the cupboard and returned to the living room, pouring another drink. 

As he took another sip, he coughed as he looked over at the painting, still standing on it’s easel.

It had changed.

He could clearly see it, even at a glance.  He got up to look closer, peering at it through his glasses, and shook his head.

The faceless man climbing the stairs was now almost the glass chamber in which his featureless woman stood.  The woman hands were pressed against the glass, and there were cracks now, as if she were making progress with her escape. 
His hand hurt, and he glanced down to see the cut had begun to bleed even more.  He quickly shook the altered painting from his mind and rushed into the kitchen, applying a napkin to the wound.  Suddenly, the lights went out.

Darkness filled the house, building an impenetrable wall around him, and he felt the slight sting of fear.  He allowed this fear to hold him for a moment, and then decided to travel out to the shed.

…………………………………

The rain was pouring in buckets outside the door, and he hurried across the darkened driveway and onto the now overgrown lawn, feeling water leak through his shoes and socks.  He could hardly see in the downpour, and was forced to slow his pace as he moved towards the shed.

The door of the shed was open, but he didn’t stop to register anything wrong with it, and quickly ducked inside.  He tried the switch to turn on the outside light, which failed to work.  He looked out at the dark lawn, soaking wet, and gazed out towards the road, as if he were expecting someone to wander out of the dark.  He caught himself doing this, and went back into the shed.

Breathing heavily and feeling chilled, he began to hunt through the disorganized piles of various equipment; his hands brushed against and discarded rakes, shovels, tarps and various other things.  He cursed his disorganized habits for a moment, and then continued his hunt.

He had the briefest urge to shout to Rebecca, for her to come and help him look, or perhaps tell him where they had left the old lamps, but quickly remembered that she wasn’t around to ask. 

And then, a sound.

He stopped his rummaging, listening intently.  It wasn’t a storm sound, he was sure of that, it sounded more like someone walking across the pavement, their footsteps slapping through the puddles. 

Lightning flashed.

In the corner of his eye, he saw the shape of a person, standing at the door of the shed.  It was female, he could see the shape of a dress blowing in the wind- knee length and white, with straps over her shoulders.  Her hair was long and wet, unaffected by the wind.  Her skin was white, pale and ghastly. 

He wheeled quickly to confront the intruder(hadn’t he seen someone out here the other night?), when his right foot found his left, sending him tumbling roughly to the ground.  He crashed into piles of junk, causing them to tumble like a house of cards.  He cried out as a tool box smacked into his shoulder and continued it’s descent to the ground, breaking open and spilling wrenches and screwdivers around the floor, under shelves.  His arm smacked against the shovel pressed against the wall, bringing it down on him.  He batted it away with his forearm, wincing at the sudden pain.  Some large objects tumbled in front of him, one of them hitting his knee, but he hadn’t time to observe these objects.

Then, the chaos stopped and he looked up.

She was gone, and only the rain observed him now, sitting foolishly in a pile of useless junk, most of it used once and now wasting space, unwanted and unneeded- without purpose.

He shook his head, blaming his hallucination on the booze, and began to gather a few things up front around his wet legs and feet, when he saw what the last objects to bounce off of him were.

A trio of battery powered camping lights, lying unbroken at his feet.  He breathed in an ironic laugh, and gathered them up in his arms, and ran back to the house.

………………………………………………………

He tried the lights a few times in all the rooms on the first floor, but found that nothing at all worked.  He placed one lamp in the bathroom, thinking that this was where he would need it most.  He stopped to empty his bladder, and continued setting up his lamps.  He placed a second on the stand between the kitchen and the living room, just below the telephone hanging on the wall.  He switched this one on, pleased to see it largely illuminated both the kitchen and the hall leading to the small bathroom well enough for him to maneuver easily, even if the ghostly pale light made the shadows longer and more ominous, and made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

He held the third lamp in his hand, wondering what he should do with it.  He thought about carrying it with him, but he knew he could easily grab the one on the kitchen stand with ease if it came to his needing to maneuver about the house.  He began to move upstairs, not really thinking about it.

As he walked, he ran through a list of places to leave them.  One of the bedrooms, maybe, or just in the hallway.  Maybe the second bathroom upstairs.  Before he could come to a conclusion, he found himself in the attic, standing in the middle of Rebecca’s studio.  He had turned the lamp on, and began to pace around the room once more, hearing the rain outside.  He checked the tarps he had put up around the window, finding that for the most part it was keeping the rain out.  He looked around again, wondering what had possessed him to come up here, and went back downstairs.

He placed his third lamp in the bedroom, on the nightstand. 

He wasn’t sure why he made this decision, only that something felt right about it. 
Someone would need it to find their way to bed.

…………………………………………………
With the house dark, save the dim light of the lamps and the few candles he dug up for the living room, Warren quickly found himself bored, even with the glasses of whiskey being drained.  He sat in the dark, staring at the painting with near sightless eyes, feeling the whiskey work it’s way through his body.
He tried not to think about Rebecca.

The candlelight made such an effort difficult, however, and he found himself drawn back to memories of them cuddled during storms, candles circling them.  He remembered making love to her then, feeling the warmth of the tiny flickering flames around them, wine flushing their skin, brandy or rum warming their bellies.  He remembered how her body looked in candlelight, smoothing away any signs of aging or imperfections, creating the image of some sort of divine woman.

The memory was met with another quickly drained glass of Whiskey.  He was beginning to feel drunk.  He leaned back on the couch, trying not to think, closing his eyes.

Just as he felt sleep might take him again, this time for the night, he sat up with a start at the sound of another crash of glass, smashing to the floor.  He stood up quickly, and waited.  He could hear the tinkling of some more glass, perhaps later to splinter to the floor.  Or someone walking on it.

He ignored this thought.  He’d never heard about looters or thieves in the area, and told himself in was a side-effect of the whiskey.  However, as he tried to relax himself again, he heard those sounds again.

Footsteps on glass.

He grabbed one of the candles and began to walk from the living room into the kitchen, towards the barely illuminated, shadowy hallway to the small bathroom.  He reached the mouth of the cave-like den of shadows and stopped dead in his tracks.
The window at the end of the hall was broken.

It was a small window, barely large enough for someone to get in through.  He and Rebecca had used it to get in if they accidently looked themselves out.  Glass splintered on the ground everywhere, the small curtain billowing freely in the harsh, unforgiving wind.  This was not what disturbed him, though.

What disturbed him was the Woman in the dress standing in the glass, the shards cutting her feet and spreading blood that seemed too red to him in footprints on floor and glass alike.  She said nothing, standing perfectly still, watching him.

He stared at her for what seemed to him like forever and shook his head and quickly replacing his compsure.  The woman stared back, and hey held this pose for a long time.

“Rebecca?” He asked.