Three Floors Up
Three Floors Up
by
Paul White
An Electric Eclectic Novelette
Copyright © Paul White 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Introduction
Paul wrote this chilling tale of psychotic self-perception from the comfortable surroundings of his Yorkshire home.
A far cry from the sordid conditions inhabited by the characters in the deathly story.
Enjoy.
Dirty Windows
Through the dirt-encrusted glass of the window, I look down on people passing below my vantage point.
Years of neglect have seen the small panes of glass, which make the whole of the window, become dulled by black and green mould, dust, soot and unidentifiable debris combine, the glass now opaque.
All except one small pane, the one I look through. My spyhole. It has a circle of clarity, rubbed clean by an old rag I keep to hand for that purpose.
At night I do not need my spyhole. It is easier to slide the lower section of the sash window upwards. By doing so I can let the voices of those passing by into my world.
It would be futile to open the window during the day; the noise of the traffic, of the town, the aeroplanes flying overhead all combine into a cacophony. It drowns out their voices. Which is why I only raise the sash after dark.
I sit in my darkened room; a black coat, thick, quilted to ward off the icy winds from my skin. A balaclava ski-mask stops my face being illuminated by external light.
I can see them. I can see them all, but no one sees me.
I can hear their voices, each word they speak, yet I remain silent.
They, the passers-by, are not so far away I cannot see the details of their faces, see their breath condensing in the chill air. During the evenings and throughout the night I hear them, all of them. Everything said, everything spoken aloud.
Sometimes I hear their thoughts. I hear their lost dreams muttering on the winds.
The street lamp outside casts a pathetic yellow glow, but it illuminates enough to make my night vigils worthwhile.
You see, they often stop under that light, my light, like moths fluttering around a candle flame. While they are under my light they talk, or argue, or fight, or scream. Sometimes with mirth, sometimes in fear.
Occasionally I see them kiss. Watch wandering hands fondle beneath clothing. I watch them all.
I have seen much looking out from my small, dank, dark room. The bedroom of my rented flat; a rundown, unmaintained and, I think, illegally rented flat. It certainly does not comply with any government requirements for health, or safety, or fire regulations.
Impressum
Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 31.01.2018
ISBN: 978-3-7438-5357-7
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Widmung:
For all who observe the world from a unique perspective.