Two Carpe Diem
(A/N) This Chapter is no where near done, I just wanted to get part of it up. Please read and review, as this one is headed for publication, and any criticism is welcomed.
I twisted away, grasping my shoulder where his corrosive hand touched, as if it burned, like the mordantly hissing truth boiling inside…
With a start, I awoke, possessing a mind quite unlike my own; one racing with residual terror. Rivulets of cold perspiration weakly masqueraded as discomfort, momentarily distracting me from the dull ache coursing through my body.
From the next room, the sweet sent of tobacco wafted in on the gentle breeze of a violin's weeping lament. Wrapping the warmth of leisurely wakefulness around my mind, I carefully slid from under the crisp sheets to prop my back against the headboard. I needed no reminding of the past night's events, the inability to open my left eye would serve as a reminder for some time. After taking inventory, I ascertained that I had sustained numerous bruises and abrasions, centralized mainly on my back, neck, and face; as well as a sprained wrist, which was turned a lovely shade of purple during my period of mental absence. The only serious injuries I could perceive were a severely wounded pride, and a long-term prognosis of critical embarrassment.
Sun rained in from a large window, and illuminated dust particles in the air. The furnishings were Spartan, preserving timbre of austerity. The stiff sheets were obviously recently set, having neither loosened with age nor been slept on. Thus, it was safe to conclude that this room was not lived in, particularly not by my host. I was relieved to find I was not occupying anyone's usual space.
I eased myself out of bed, my toes curling from the contact with the bare floor. My hands were drawn to my face, pushing the rebellious tresses from my eyes, in the process discovering a thin line of stitches above my eyebrow. What doctor would have seen me at such an ungodly hour? Brimming with curiosity, summoning the courage to move past the door. I paced the quarters until my travels halted at the window.
With each step towards the glass, the plaintive whine of the violin joined with each component of an orchestra, incrementally forming a crescendo, climaxing in the overture to Baker Street. I leant (or leaned?) my forehead to the cool glass and watched the symphony on the street below. Wheels syncopated an animated conversation with horses' hooves, setting the foundation for the overlying melody of a cabby's colorful curses. Harmonic voices swept in with a defiant air, newspaper boys screeching their knowledge to the dapper young men and women who passed. The jingling coins in their pockets seemed to make them deaf to those who needed it.
I tried to add my self into this equation, but as a variable, I was incompatible. No one knew who, or for that matter, where I was, save for Sherlock Holmes, and all he had were his deductions and my name. The music settled into a lull, and I looked once more to the window, but all I saw was my translucent reflection.