And here it is (again), Icarus part three. Again. very little direction coupled with a lot of angst. As ever, let me know what you think. It might be getting a bit repetitive now…
Now, without much ado at all, here is part three:
The door bowed, wind slipping round the edges of the frame, invading the room. With it, a deep chill blew through the room causing Isaac to pull his coat tighter to his chest. The coat was old, older him, it had been his Father’s, handed down to him as a sign of respect, and expectation. His Dad had always been slightly disappointed in him. He had wanted a son who shone bright, who was just like he had been in his youth, someone who was driven and someone who achieved. That’s not to say that they didn’t get along, they did, it was more a sense. The fact his own Father felt slightly ashamed of his Son’s lack of achievement crept up slowly on Isaac. It began with fewer phone calls, fewer trips home, a missed birthday card here, a late Christmas card there. There was no blame, just sadness and potential wasted. But no matter, his other siblings were doing well, so one out of three wasn’t really that bad, doesn’t every family have a let-down?
His introspection was cut short by a sharp bang. The door had blown open, the ancient wood shattering against the wall. This caused a shudder to run through the cottage, cracks formed in the aging plaster and dust coated the floor, shaken loose from the beams crisscrossing the ceiling. Isaac drew a deep breath. “Here it comes” he muttered to himself, barely perceptible over the cacophony. The cottage was slowly collapsing around him. What had once provided refuge from harm had become dangerous. He couldn’t stay here, but he didn’t think he could leave. The wind blew, the building creaked and groaned, and he grew cold. He knew he had to leave.
The once ornate room was slowly being ripped apart. Each fixture, each fitting were torn away by the ravenous storm. It was as if the room was being meticulously stripped of all identifying facets. He watched as his entire history was swept past him and flung out over the cliff to crash on the waiting rocks below. As they flew past he tried to grab something, to cling on to one last remnant of who he had been but his past, present, and future slipped through his fingers. A flapping fragment of a photograph crashed into his face, lingering for a moment. He grasped it, fighting against the tempest for this one final possession. He held fast to each side, his fingers going stiff in the cold. He remembered the picture being taken; it was on his first day of school. He stood in between his two brothers, his postman pat doll nestled in the crook of his arm and cheeky smile on his face, part bashful, part excited, part terrified, he remember how he felt that day. The excitement had rushed through him, electrifying his senses and ensnaring his mind. There had been so much hope that day; the start of a journey that he thought would end in a life well lived. How was he going to get himself back to that feeling? The photo was ripped from his hand and lost to the vortex; a cry escaped his lips but was ripped away as well. Everything that he was, everything that he had been was gone, sucked down over the cliff into the waiting nothing of beyond.
He stepped forward slowly, leaning into the wind as if he were wading through water. Each step he took towards the ravaged doorframe was matched by a piece of his cottage, the cottage, being torn away. The further he went, the less remained behind him. The storm had reached its peak, the wind was deafening, the rain impenetrable. His vision was lost, his hearing useless, all he knew was the limits of his skin, and nothing else was perceptible, nothing else was real. Slowly, ever so slowly, he made it to the door.