Prosfic As We Go Again - 388/1000 words
Thursday, 26 February 2015 02:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
byslantedlightUnder a cut, because this is the kind of writing I'll tinker with more than any other as I go along, and you might not want to see the words right there in your flist... but if you don't mind, there they are... *g*
It’s cold in the bottom of the skip, and Doyle is getting too old for this. It’s wet too, water soaking through his jeans, his jumper, through to his t-shirt and his skin. He’s cold, he’s going to start shivering soon, and that’s not good. He needs to do something.
Too old for this.
He thinks his left arm is probably broken, the one that he’s lying on, and he would move his right one to try and get a purchase on the hard icy metal, to pull himself up, but he knows for sure that his collarbone’s out on that side, and just breathing makes him want to fall back into warm, dark unconsciousness. There’s a reason he shouldn’t do that, and he mostly remembers what it is, so he keeps his eyes open, and tries to hold himself tense so that he won’t shiver. Just another minute to gather his strength, and then he’ll get himself out of here.
Focus, that’s the key, keep the fog at bay, because that’s cold too. There’s light above him, so it’s Tuesday morning, and he must have been unconscious for a while, because he remembers them throwing his broken body into the skip, like so much useless rubbish, and it was still dark then.
He’s almost covered in real rubbish, detritus from a building site it looks like, a piece of plasterboard slanted above him, resting on one of his feet, and that hurts too, with the kind of twinging pain that makes him think his ankle might be broken. He can’t feel his other leg at all, and he hopes that’s just because of the cold.
Try moving it.
In a minute.
It’s cold in here, but if he starts to shiver he’ll black out from his collar bone, and maybe from his ankle and arm as well. His face feels bruised on one side, the side that’s pressed to the grit and muck where the water is pooled underneath him. It’s not much, not even an inch, but its cold. He’s still mostly dry where he’s not lapped by the water, but it’ll seep up through his clothes, chill him, ice him.
He has to move before that.
Can’t move, it hurts to breathe. He can’t black out, can’t, it’ll all be over if he does.
Focus.
Yeay virtual office! If only I didn't have to get on with my other work now... Okay - next ten pages!
It’s cold in the bottom of the skip, and Doyle is getting too old for this. It’s wet too, water soaking through his jeans, his jumper, through to his t-shirt and his skin. He’s cold, he’s going to start shivering soon, and that’s not good. He needs to do something.
Too old for this.
He thinks his left arm is probably broken, the one that he’s lying on, and he would move his right one to try and get a purchase on the hard icy metal, to pull himself up, but he knows for sure that his collarbone’s out on that side, and just breathing makes him want to fall back into warm, dark unconsciousness. There’s a reason he shouldn’t do that, and he mostly remembers what it is, so he keeps his eyes open, and tries to hold himself tense so that he won’t shiver. Just another minute to gather his strength, and then he’ll get himself out of here.
Focus, that’s the key, keep the fog at bay, because that’s cold too. There’s light above him, so it’s Tuesday morning, and he must have been unconscious for a while, because he remembers them throwing his broken body into the skip, like so much useless rubbish, and it was still dark then.
He’s almost covered in real rubbish, detritus from a building site it looks like, a piece of plasterboard slanted above him, resting on one of his feet, and that hurts too, with the kind of twinging pain that makes him think his ankle might be broken. He can’t feel his other leg at all, and he hopes that’s just because of the cold.
Try moving it.
In a minute.
It’s cold in here, but if he starts to shiver he’ll black out from his collar bone, and maybe from his ankle and arm as well. His face feels bruised on one side, the side that’s pressed to the grit and muck where the water is pooled underneath him. It’s not much, not even an inch, but its cold. He’s still mostly dry where he’s not lapped by the water, but it’ll seep up through his clothes, chill him, ice him.
He has to move before that.
Can’t move, it hurts to breathe. He can’t black out, can’t, it’ll all be over if he does.
Focus.
Yeay virtual office! If only I didn't have to get on with my other work now... Okay - next ten pages!
no subject
Date: Thursday, 26 February 2015 11:37 pm (UTC)Ooh - I haven't emailed you yet either, about your parcel! Tomorrow, I promise!
*wanders off to write*...
no subject
Date: Thursday, 26 February 2015 11:50 pm (UTC)