|Image: Marching Through Edinburgh Snow, a Creative Commons Attribution (2.0) image from Martin Burns's Photostream|
Day 2's Prompt is an excerpt of sorts from the WIP I've been working on since high school. Unlike then, I have a better idea of where it's going now and I hope to work on it further when I'm less occupied by studies.
Paul found himself looking at the tiles on the ceiling. Of simple design, he admired the aesthetics of maroon on gray, sometimes being distracted by the rotors of the nearby ceiling fan. This was a familiar scene to him since, for the past couple days, his consciousness drifted in and out of reality. Regaining his vision, his first thought was, “What a boring waiting room this is!”
Then something new crossed his vision; a face. His nearsightedness was not much help, blurring the facial senses into one peach blob. There was a lot of dark brown surrounding the blob. He squinted trying to make out who it was, but to no avail.
The splotch retreated then returned. Paul could not make out the face this time, as the blurred mark became larger and larger. Then instead of being devoured by a pigment, he then saw a hand retreat from his vision. Instead of being grateful for this, Paul felt chills crawl up and down.
“Looks like I failed the entrance exam,” He said, one lengthy sigh.
The face, partly covered in freckles and a lab coat, rolled her eyes.
“And why would you pass it,” She replied. “That was dumb! Running through the ice like that.”
She retreated from the bed and looked over the contents of Paul’s tote bag. Most of it was paperwork; the scribbling’s of an investigation into Jed Paul’s propaganda network. The rest was a few Douglas Adams novels and an untouched copy of Dan Gillmor’s Mediactive. She grinned, flipping through the files.
“You journos are all info hogs,” She said. “You’re not gonna use half of this, you know.”
“But I will,” He retorted, lifting himself from the pillow. “It’s all a trail to the bigger picture.”
She turned around, “So then what? Throwing that junk into the public eye’s not gonna do much.”
“There’ll be an outcry!”
“An outcry over opposition maybe!”
Paul stopped. He slowly became pale with cold sweats overwhelming him back onto the mattress. He passed out from reality again and the woman stood at the bedside, giggling.
“Why are you afraid of me?” She asked.
She looked at Paul’s left arm, dangling down from the covers. The torn glove exposed the symbol tattooed into his hand; the dreaded BDL. She gently lifted his hand onto the bed.
“Just like us then,” She thought. “Just like us.”