Idlebones

Henry’s Notebook

October 14, 2006 – 0:05

He’s counting in the waves.

(One, two, three, four, five,six).

The seventh is always the biggest, he thinks. His feet are wet
with sea water, barefoot and glistening with sand.

(Seven)

The wave reaches his pool and washes the sand away from his feet, running tiny
pebbles over them like tiny pedestrians rushing for a train. There’s a
momentary calm hiatus as the water rises up his shins, frothing and
foaming, then a sucking sensation as the pebbles rush back to the
homes. He lifts one foot and hears the sucking flop as the air rushes
into the hole he has left in the sand.

(One, two, three, four, five, six). He wants to raise his head to see the wave approaching, but when he tries; his eyes are whipped back by the tightly coiled spring that is his neck to the tiny pool around his feet.

 (Seven)

His left foot is now completely covered in a perfect flat layer, as if the sea has
come in and spread a smooth layer of tan coloured icing on it. He
places his right foot down to try and steady himself to free the left,
(One, two)

 but finds it is firmly held in place in a the sucking sand.

(three)

The more he pushes down with his right foot to extricate
the left,

( four, five)

 the more it sinks the more it too becomes enveloped in the unyielding grip of the sand.

(six)

A slight panic sets in, as he realises he is caught. Bending down he
claws at the sand to dig his feet free, giggling nervously.

(seven)

The wave crashes over him, more powerfully then the last, splashing
dry salt water in his eyes. The pebbles hidden under the foam are
bigger this time, glancing bruising blows off his ankles. When the
water recedes his hands work has been undone and his legs are buried
up to below his knees.

(One, Two)

He tries to look up, to cry for help, but his neck will not bend

 (Three)

The waves are coming in fast now, he can hear them crash on the shoreline in ever increasing ferocity

(four, five, Six)

 A low cry of panic escapes from his mouth but he can’t even open his throat to shout

(Seven)

The wave knocks his upper body sideways, cracking the bones of his left knee, tugging him landwards, forcing him over, his arms flailing above the angry white wash. His taut neck still will not give, forcing his face down into the suffocating saltiness of the water, stinging his eyes and forcing it’s way into his mouth. Thick salt water fills his nostrils as he sucks in automatically, as a bright white agony swamps his brain, as if a red hot skewer has plunged itself into his knees. He hears the carthelage popping under the all encompassing force of the wave….

        Henry was on his feet before he was fully awake. The bolt of pure
panic has flung him from his bed under the stairs to a standing position
by the smoldering fire. Standing in the half light, he caught sight of
his terrified face in the cracked mirror for a horrified second before
tilting forward limply, catching himself at the last moment with his
outstretched arms against the wood of the table. For a moment he
thought he saw the reflected image of a hazily familiar bedroom behind him. White
walls decorated with posters of rock stars, and football teams. A
bookshelf of multicoloured spines, vertically and horizontally
stacked. There was something familiar about one of the books at one
end of the shelf. Its red binding and gold leaf lettering stuck in
his mind as he regained his composure, trying to stamp the image into
his scrapbook memory. Then he’s back in his bedsit. Limp, thin curtains glowing orange against a streetlight.

What he could remember, he would write down in his notebook. This
battered, dog eared accounts ledger he had picked up
off a desk in the offices he cleaned by night. Some ones earlier accounts records ripped out. His nocturnal outpourings splashed and careered distressingly on its
pages. Scribbled on every available space on the pages he’d used up
were dark images, dug in frantic deep grooves, others carefully etched lines
of hideous scenes. He kept the notebook by his bed, so that he could
grab it and put the dreams to paper before they faded completely from
his mind. To a casual observer, it would have looked like a Childs
copy book, until on closer inspection, they would have noticed the
inscriptions under the drawings. A blur of black swirls and L shaped
blocks was captioned “Black foot Coils”. Another showed want looked to
be a mans head from the back. The edge of a Heavy black pencil had
been used to scratch tussles of thick black hair, curly and collar
length. In amongst the curls There appeared to be a smaller face on
one side of his head, looking back at the viewer.

A young boys face with dead, black holes for eyes.

 

 

This was subtitled “Conscience”
On nearly every page, the borders filled with curled shapes, like,
elongated S’s falling forwards. They were scratched with deep gouges.
As if the artist had used his fist. Leaning in to the fire to throw
some light on the page, Henry began his latest entry. His quick pencil
strokes first scratched back and forth across the page, creating a sea
of black lines. Next, a glove shaped object, spread fingers bursting
from the horizontal scribbles. This he filled in completely until it
was a black solid. In fainter, more delicate lines, he drew a bent
figure below the waterline, head bowed and one hand clutching an ankle.

 This one he called “Seven”.