Wild Fiction

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It was a large room; it looked like a basement or a cellar. A small window at the far end let in some light. A feeling of anxiety clutched at her chest and her breathing became shallow and fast. ‘I’m in a prison, I’m in hell,’ she whispered to herself in a staccato cadence. She was in a shallow box, about six feet by three, almost a coffin but not as luxurious. The damp and musty air tickled her nose and she sneezed twice in quick succession. She climbed out of the box and looked around. Rows of shallow boxes, like hers, neatly lined the outer walls of the basement. Dirty cream paint flaked off their wooden sides. Some of them had bodies lying in them, others were empty. All of them had cobwebs clinging to their corners and a fine layer of dust covered them like a light snowfall. Although the feeling of anxiety gripped her even tighter she managed to control her breathing by taking several long deep breaths. I’m in a catacomb, she thought. A shiny white label fixed to the frame at the foot of her box caught her eye. Printed on it, in bold type was:
Rebecca (no surname yet)
Reading her name on that label caused her whole body to tense. A series of images raced through her mind: the restaurant, then that famous bloke, the car - a red one, fast driving, and finally the hospital. The memory stopped right there, in that small examining room in the hospital. A dull pain throbbed at the back of her head and she rubbed it with her hand. She looked at the other boxes. They all had labels, most of them were faded yellow and some of them were illegible. She bent down and examined the label on the box next to hers. It read:
James Sloane
James was snoring gently. He looked like he was probably in his mid twenties. His black hair lay flat against his head. A few days of growth covered his pale face with a layer of dark stubble. She looked away from him. A mirror hung at an angle above a hand basin attached to one of the supporting pillars. She walked over to it and looked at herself. In the reflection she saw a racoon striped face and a clown red mouth of smeared lipstick. A bottle of Nivea liquid soap stood on the basin. She pumped it until the soap overflowed from her cupped hand and washed the make up off. The sleeve of her jacket was all she needed to dry her face.
James’s foetal form was still asleep when she returned to the foot of his box. She kicked the frame that surrounded him. The nails holding the planks together squeaked in complaint. He snorted and twitched. She kicked it again and he mumbled something in his sleep. She slipped her two baby fingers into either side of her mouth and blew. A sharp whistle bounced off the walls and reverberated in her ears. He continued to sleep.

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