#shakin in my boots while writing alan

[yllowpages]

plotted (technically) starter.

There's a feeling in The Dark Place. Like suffocation. Water constantly filling the lungs, spilling out the mouth. Sinking deeper and deeper beneath the surface of the water. Down, down ... He became accustomed to it, expecting of it, but it never went away. The dark waters stealing the air from his throat. Unable to breathe. ( Drowning! I'm drowning! There's no way out! This is hell! )

Alan stands in the lodge bathroom. Just moments before, he'd heard the door to the room click, leaving him alone once more : ' We can talk after you've cleaned yourself up, Mr. Wake. ' He looks himself in the mirror. The mud caked in his hair, on his suit, has begun to dry and harden. He can still feel his shirt stick close to his body, too damp to dry fully. He looks into his own eyes. Thirteen years ... ( Thirteen ... ) Alan looks down at the porcelain sink and slowly reaches for the faucet. He switches the water on, but he's almost hesitant to put his hands underneath the stream.

He does. Dirt and grime instantly begins to wash down the white sink, clouding the color of the water. He scrubs lightly until his hands are mostly clean. Alan breathes in deeply. The water is warm, not so cold and biting as The Dark Place was ( — is? Am I ... Is this real? It has to be. I'm out. ) The silver of his wedding ring actually glints in the light from above the sink. ( Oh ... Alice. ) He sighs ; turns the faucet off, the water stopping with a squeak from the pipes. Again, he looks in the mirror. He knows ( thinks? ) he's himself. But there's a tickle in the back of his mind, something pawing ... scratching. ( Nerves. ) He grabs the already-loose knot in his tie and pulls.

The sound of the shower running fills the bathroom, drowns out the silence from second prior that had become deafening to him. His damp, muddy clothes are left in a pile on the bathroom floor with his shoes, smearing the tile with dirt. A folded manuscript page sits on the edge of the sink, now. They had taken the title page. ( But this one ... No, I need this one. Scratch is out there — I need to stop him. ) Alan steps into the shower, watching the water streaming out of the showerhead for a moment. ( Afraid that it ... isn't real? ) Then he steps under. His body almost seizes up at the feeling of it. He reaches his hands up to push his hair from his face, wiping away the grime on his skin with it. It all just ... washes over him.

Even with the water off, the silence doesn't return. The water gurgles as the last of it rushes down the shower drain. Then the showerhead drips into the tub in a slow, steady rhythm. Alan feels as though he can take his first deep breath in years. Lungs fill, then empty. He steps over the pile of his old clothes. Water still drips down his shoulders and his back from the ends of his hair. He opens the bathroom door, steam escaping, and he's faced with the sight of the hotel bed. On it, a set of clothes. Clean ones.

This is real. He knows. He can tell. This can't be The Dark Place anymore ... surely. He pulls the white t-shirt over his head. Even being out ... His mind still feels stuck. Everything is ... fuzzy. ( I finished the novel. I stopped Scratch from getting the ending he wanted! That's how I got out ... ) Alan stands in the hotel room, becoming lost in his own thoughts, attempting to piece everything together, but feeling as though he's becoming more and more lost in the maze — KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

' Mr. Wake? ' He gasps, startled by the sound at the door. But his pounding heart easily returns to a steady beat. He glances around the room, quickly grabbing the extra manuscript page from the bathroom. He slips it into his pocket, then grabs the checkered flannel on the bed. Alan goes to the door and almost tentatively opens it. One peek and he opens it further : ❝ Agent Anderson. ❞ He takes a breath, beginning to pull the flannel on now. ❝ Sorry, I — ❞ He glances back into the room, catching site of an old, digital clock — it's been over a half hour. ❝ I lost track of time, I think. ❞ ( Thirteen years and ... thirty-nine minutes. )

@soulcost / saga anderson.