Ryan

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

For several days, Dane lazed around the house. The few times he’d attempted to go outside, the sunlight had hurt his eyes, and shortly afterwards, he’d suffered a headache. While he thought this development was rather strange, he didn’t pay it much thought. He’d survived a disastrous car accident, not to mention the surgeon’s knife. Naturally, it was going to take some time to make a full recovery.

He fell into a routine of staying up until the early hours of the morning and waking up around noon. He’d read or watch television until the evening, then wander into the twilight to explore the gardens. He especially enjoyed sitting in the gazebo, watching the cool early-evening breezes blowing through the net curtains, gracefully lifting then releasing them so they wafted down like gossamer, brushing against his skin as they fell.

From a cushioned seat by the entrance to the gazebo, he’d lean out and watch the birds swooping down in the dull light, picking off insects mid-flight. Then, as the sun slipped ever-further over the horizon, he’d listen to them as they settled in the branches that crisscrossed high overhead, chirping and cheeping about their day before, one by one, they fell silent.

Only then, when the noise of the day had disappeared, and only the occasional unseen dog barked a lonely bark, did Dane wander back inside the house for the night.

One morning, he went into the formal lounge and was disgusted when he walked into a spider’s web. He picked the silky strands from his face and hair, spitting some from his lips, and noticed how dull and unclean everything looked. When he took the corner of one of the curtains and shook it, a cloud of fine dust exploded into the air. And it didn’t matter along which surface he ran his finger, his fingertip came away with a thin brown line across it. He realised it must have been two weeks since he’d last dusted and vacuumed. In his grief, he’d neglected the household chores. It wasn’t that he didn’t have the time. Time was something he now had in abundance. It was lethargy, a general feeling of apathy. After nearly twenty years of cleaning the house, he simply didn’t want to anymore. And why should he? His aunt had been wealthy and her small fortune was now his. He’d hire someone. Why not? Surely it was his turn to be pampered.

He placed an advertisement. Online. But in the few minutes it took to write and post it, he could feel another headache coming on, at the front of his head, where he’d struck it in the accident. His spleen had been ruptured and his face, neck, and upper torso cut up and bruised by the shattering glass, but only his head ached. Maybe he’d left the hospital too soon. Or possibly his headaches were something like aftershocks, echoes of the horrific crash that would gradually go away.

In the living room, he turned on the television. He wasn’t interested in watching it, but the background noise made him feel less alone. He lay on the couch as a commercial ended and a late-night news programme recommenced. More bombings. More death. More violence. Hardly news anymore. It was all so tiring. He closed his eyes and listened to the voice of a reporter somewhere in the Middle East. It didn’t take long for her voice to become a droning sound that faded slowly into silence.