The Survivor

Frozen in the past

SURVIVOR


The digital clock rang on the nightstand beside his bed. It was a dank December morning and a few cars were bustling below on the street. A hairy hand reached out from beneath the sheets and flicked the alarm off. Groggy and disoriented, Allen got up from his bed, his feet groping for the slippers perched at the foot of the bed. Rubbing the burnt mark on his elbow, he shuffled toward the door. His slippers whispered as he went over to the shower. A quick rinse was all he had time for, so he yanked off his pants, threw them into a hamper, then dashed into the shower. Still feeling a tad sleepy, he flipped on the shower, letting the warm water splat against his flesh and roll off.

Around five o'clock he filled his flask with hot coffee and set off down the road leading to the main square. It was still dark. The cobbled path was lit by the glimmering lurid light of lampposts that ran through the whole street like a long, shiny string in the dark.
Allen was a gangly man, and was wearing an olive jacket with a silver eagle's head stitched to his front pocket. The hood of his jacket was back and snow slid down his neck, making his skin prickle. From his right hand, swung the handles of an unraveled leather briefcase, the kind that opens and latches. Small flurries of snow, like cold ashes descending from the sky, whirling in the howling gust, were hitting crazily against the sodium light shields, casting giant shadows on the stone-cobbled walk under his feet.

Somewhere behind him, a considerable amount of melting snow slipped from one of the roofs with a muffled flump, causing him to cringe and glance back. He walked briskly down the street, scrunching the snow. The gale was hooting around the eaves of the houses, hitting his onrushing face. He wiped his watery eyes with the back of his hand and turned to the main street.

Most of the shops on either side of the street were closed, except one, which Allen used to buy daily newspaper everyday. It's blinker swayed back and forth in the wind, patting wildly against the shop's entrance. Allen stood at the door, the hem of his jacket flapping around his loin. He stamped the snow off his shoes and went inside.

Inside the shop was hushed and pleasantly warm and the air was redolent of twenties speakeasies. Behind the counter, the owner, his tie undone and his shirt cuffs rolled back to show his strong wrists, was peering solemnly at Allen. Half of his face was lit by the fitful orange light of the blinker and Allen could make out the gash right beneath his cheek. The owner's frown metamorphosed to a grin as Allen came by. The back shop mirror picked up some of the street-glare and glimmered in the gloom like a mirage. Allen paid and went out with his newspaper tucked under one arm.

Two hour later, Allen was in front of a building with an iron archway. Stenciled on it, in peering letters, was the name of the College of Arts.

The wind had let up since he had left the shop and now a cold breeze was prancing around his ankles. Allen delved into his inside pocket, found a battered cigarette pack, and shook one out. He lit it up and glanced down at his watch. His breath rose in a mist in front of him.Yet the streets were forlorn of people. At last he dragged deeply at his cigarette, then tossed out the half-smoked cigarette. It watched his smoker with a solitary glaring eye as off he went.

By the time Allen entered the building, all of the corridors were mercifully empty. Crepe-soled shoes squeaked as he turned left and found his way to the Teachers' Room. He stood lingering at the door, then knocked thrice and went in. The empty room was stripped by the weak sunlight coming through the scorched-frame window. Soot and dust sprinkled all over the floor and chairs. A little off the center, was a colossal oak table carpeted with a heavy layer of dust.

Allen dumped his briefcase on the table, and slipped off his gloves. The clock on the wall seemed to had been stopped for a long period. He reached into his briefcase and brought out a flask. Removing its cap, he poured down the coffee into a cup. Today he was going to teach modern art to his students.

He waited for other teachers to show up, but no one did. The time crept by. He stirred his coffee, focusing on the subject he wanted to teach. A door below him in the first floor slammed shut so hard enough to slope his coffee from the cup.

He had gotten a handkerchief from his briefcase and was mopping the desk. Then he flopped back onto his seat and stared up at the ceiling, as he did it yesterday and as he had done through all those seven years. A sign on the left side of the college's entrance read: CLOSED SINCE 1991. AFTER THE FIRE BROKE OUT