Sunrise

There was a dull ache where she banged her head on coffee table last night. She touched it lightly, wincing as her fingers touched the raw cut on her left temple. Carefully, she moved off the couch, staggering towards the stairs. She started to climb, gripping the banister tightly, pulling herself upwards. She made her way to the bathroom and undressed, stepping into the shower. She allowed the warm water to spray over her sore bones, stinging her cuts, before soothing them with the heat. Red merged with water falling to her feet, swirling around before being swallowed at the plughole. Breathing in she closed her eyes, relishing in the calmness of the moment. She was there for half an hour before finally starting to scrub away at her bruises with soap. She was gentle not to lather the cut on her head or the tiny stab wound on her right shoulder.
    Once she finished she wrapped the large bath towel around her and walked towards the bathroom mirror to check her injuries. The mirror had steamed up and using the palm of her hand she cleared a good portion to view herself carefully. Her bright blue eyes stood out more with the black shadows that surrounded them, making her thin, long face haggard looking. Her red hair was pushed right back off her face, leaving her cut visible. She manoeuvred her fragile body to try and see the damage to her back. The shower had washed away the dry blood that had clotted over the shoulder wound so it had started to bleed again. It wasn’t a deep gash and a plaster would be enough to heal it. She was lucky, she had escaped with only a few bruised ribs and minor cuts. Not like past times, where she incurred broken bones and deeper gashes. Opening her cabinet she pulled out a box of plasters and covered her scars.
    Entering her bedroom she dressed in her track suit bottoms and a black t-shirt. Opening the curtains, she watched the sun starting to rise. The dawn was fading fast and beautiful reds, oranges and yellows mixed with light and dark tones of blue. The birds were chirping like crazy, as if they were all discussing last nights events. Magpies telling of how their cousin, the raven, had visited last night. She watched the stillness of the trees in her garden and the calm flowers swaying lightly under the pressure of fresh morning dew. She stood lost for a few seconds before the phone rang, making her jump. She rushed to pick it up.
    ‘Hello, hello. Ariel?’ the caller’s voice was filled with concern.
    ‘Hi, Janet, I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to get you involved.’ Ariel sounded like she had a sore throat. She sat on the side of her bed, stroking her aching arm.
    ‘I’m just sorry, it didn’t stop him. Where is he?’ Janet spoke softly waiting for a reply, but Ariel didn’t speak. After a short pause Janet asked again.
    ‘He’s gone’ Ariel turned her head looking passed the window, towards the sky, further still.
    ‘Gone. Where?’
    ‘Hell hopefully,’ Ariel replied. ‘Listen Janet, I’m feeling quite queasy at the moment can I call you back later?’
    ‘Sure Hun, of course. You take it easy today, don’t come to work. I’ll cover for you, ok.’ Janet said a few more goodbyes and then the call ended. Ariel picked up the photo frame and sat for a short while looking at the head shot image of her and Jacob. They were both smiling. She gave a sigh and placed  it facing down on her bedside table. She got up and made her way back downstairs.
    In the kitchen she made herself a cup of coffee then sat in the white washed kitchen and quietly drank her coffee while the sun streamed in lining her life with light. Residents of Pearly Road would soon be up and running their daily routines. Ariel didn’t look forward to the gossiping and pity filled glances that the neighbouring houses would revel in. She shivered at the thought of having to answer questions and justify last nights events. It was going to be a long day, she thought. Finishing her coffee. She washed up and walked into the living room. She straightened the cushions and bits of furniture that had toppled in the fight. Then assessing the room, she walked over and picking the receiver, she started to dial. She stood tall when the operator asked what the emergency was.
    ‘I’d like to report my husband's dead body in my living room.’

Writing while Procrastinating.

I am poor as a writer. I can't see a story or plot developing. I don't see connections clearly between words or phrases, that read better as stand alones. All i see is the light wind, heavier than a cool breeze, forcing trees to sway. From where I sit, staring out the bedroom window, the leaves seem to chatter and squeal with delight as the sensation of photosynthesis surges through their veins. I see the humming birds rest on the branches. Like shoulders bearing the burden of life, they sag slightly with the weight; as tiny as it may be.
     I pick my pen and begin to write. A prologue to writing begins.

No sooner did my wits adhere to the lifting of the sun. I shot a glance to the man, laying on his stomach beside me. I frowned and cursed, quietly to myself. Then quickly panning the room I sat up holding my head in my hands. The darkened room, which was succombing to the spreading light was bare, with a pine vaneered, two door wardrobe and a bedside table that didn't match. Clothes were thrown across the floor, not mine I was glad to see. The wall paper was shabby and too flowery to belong to the tattooed arm next to me, but who was I to judge. 
    I quietly crept out of bed, making sure not to wake the sleeping beast; i made my way for the door and suddenly made my exit. In a hallway I stood not sure where to go. Going straight then turning left, I saw an elevator. When it came I entered, I was on the fourth floor, so I pressed 'zero', thinking it would take me to ground level.
    When the elevator doors opened I stepped out ready to leave last nights memories, or lack of them, behind me. Instead I froze in sheer confusion. My eyes wide and my mouth slighlty open. I was standing on the same floor as when I entered the lift. As soon as realisation kicked in, the lift doors closed, leaving me alone in the ghostly hall of floor number four.

I let out a sigh and put down my pen. Then I stare out at the world again. The birds and bees and the butterflies, all competing with each other to see who is the better singer. The birds they tweet out a tune, whistling and chirping about the sky. The bee's hum a sweet nectar driven lullaby. The butterflies flap and flutter, whispering using their wings as drummers against the wind, as they chant about new life. I sigh, as if in tune with these flying acrobats, who twirl and swirl and whirl to great heights. Yet I am sitting staring, quietly and definately not writing.
Definately not writing.