Here it is, the long-awaited part two to my short story Icarus.
If you missed part one, catch up here.
I’m still clueless as to where this story is going and I realise I’m at risk of repeating myself. But I really just want to practice and try to find my voice. What i’m writing here is starting to resonate quite personally, as the state of mind i’m attempting to capture is one i’ve had before.
We all have a raging storm inside us, and its our own walls that keep us protected. Sometimes these buckle, and sometimes they break. But whatever happens, however bad it feels, the sun will always come out. At least, that’s the hope.
Anyway, here is part two:
“He hadn’t been to the cottage for what seemed like an eternity. The need to visit hadn’t been there, he had been soaring through life. An easy charm and a quick wit had seen him through most situations. When needed a small amount of effort solved everything else. There were few challenges that required much thought. Everything seemed to just fall in to place, and that was the way he had always been. Even when things went wrong, he seemed to come out unscathed. Sometimes people got hurt, but they always forgave him. Nothing was ever malicious, just unthinking. It’s the way he had always operated; things just worked.
With each success he put in a little less effort and relied too much on his wits. Yet, it still seemed to work. He sailed from one achievement to another without ever really deserving it. In a destructive sort of way he was proud of his ability to get by, to coast while others strove. So he left things later and later, seeing how little effort he could put in to achieve the same as others. He was flying high, everything was good and everything worked. It worked, until it didn’t. Like Icarus, he had flown too close to the sun.
While people had learned how to apply themselves and more importantly, how to deny themselves what they wanted, he had not. Now he was left behind. The fall was not spectacular. It was slow, barely perceptible even. He just spiralled, caught in nothing, moving nowhere. There’s nothing quite like stagnation for plunging someone into darkness.
And so here he was a cottage in the middle of nowhere, enveloped by a raging storm. The walls were about to break and the precipice beckon. There was nothing left he could chance. He caught sight of his reflection on a cracked mirror in the corner of the room. On his face oblivion was sketched in his expression. Whatever was coming seemed inevitable. A wry smile danced across his face.”