Sky

By Roshan Jacob

I was roused awake. I feel the heat of the evening sun touch my skin. There was a table to my right and two windows to my left. Ahead were my legs and behind, a wall.

I fold my bedsheets and lay them to dry near the window. 

I got up, feeling the way around in the dark. I had to go out for a walk. The floorboard argues. I trip over my incense sticks. 

I feel around for a grimy doorknob. Feel the grime.

I gently turn it, hearing the whine of an old spring. I go out.

Dust. Dusty granite, from a neighbouring wall, gray and unyielding. And iron. Rusted iron, of the gate. I scrape my fingernails against it, My nose stings from the burning, acrid smell of rust. 

A snapped powerline greets me with an irregular buzz.

I look around for the purpose of my excursion. I see it.

I want four screws. Two to bolt my door shut, and two more to replace them when the door is broken down.

I walk eastwards till I find some on the pavement. Two. It will do.

I look ahead.

An apartment confronts me with its glorious, burnt wreck of a facade. I run my hands on the railings. 

Bloodied. Dried.

A woman hangs from the balcony, a certain irony in her equilibrium, reminiscent of the Renaissance. Two eyes were painted towards the heavens.

Watching.

Waiting.

I pay my respects and take my leave. My finger nicks the edge of a railing. It reddens and bruises. I turn back towards my windows and bedsheets and table.

I pass by children. Playing, kicking, screaming, laughing. A ball soars high, high above. Thirteen children turn their heads to the sky, the whites of their eyes shining through the mist. Thirteen faces lifted to the heavens, expectant.

Waiting.

Watching.

I do not watch the skies anymore.

I do not look up.

I walk ahead. A left at a dilapidated streetlamp and another at a butcher’s brings me to my windows and bedsheets and table.

The silent hum of a powerline awakens me to a vast, sudden silence. The waves rise and fall. I cannot. I have to. Temptation. Resistance.

I open my clenched right hand. One screw.

It will do.

One screw.

No, it won’t. It won’t do.

Temptation. Temptation. 

I look up.

And the walls collapse and the powerlines snap and the trees burn. Screams - from the ground. A burning sky of pale green surrenders to an inky, suffocating blackness.

I cannot act. It pushes my head upwards, forcing subservience. I stare into the void as it approaches me.

Watching.

Waiting.

Tempting.

I look away.

The walls rise. Screams - from the children. The trees are silent.

I open my right hand. Two screws. 

I turn westwards, and begin walking.

By Roshan Jacob