Trapped

Chapter One
 
 
 
           I stared at the TV screen; my mind devoured nothing of what my eyes were feeding it. I was restless, anxious, fidgety, paranoid, incoherent, and a whole lot of other feelings the dictionary didn’t have words for. The bookstore was all i had. I gave birth to it and nurtured it to grow to what it is now. New owners! I have loyal customers. The Bookworm is a haven, a world of infinite places and characters you only discover in dreams, unless it's in a book. What will i tell the kids?"Sorry, but these big bad men in their Armani suits are taking away they can't bribe me with their dirty money! I would never sell! That building is almost a hundred years old; it's a landmark! 
I propped my feet up on the couch, my thighs pressed against my chest; I rested my forehead on my knees holding my head in the palms of my hands. My fingers combed through my caramel- brown hair, grabbing the locks and pulling tight till my roots screamed with disapproval. My empty thoughts were harrowing; it was eating at my sanity.
  I got up and walked west towards the French doors that led out to the patio. I peered outside; the multi-coloured flowers I had planted in the cute little clay pots during the last summer, stood in a chorus line on the banisters encircling the rectangular porch, but they were suffocated by a thick film of white powder. I groaned at the sight of the wilted carnage; my face turned from solemn, to disgust. Why did it have to snow today? I hate the snow; I could easily go out when my friend, the sun would appear in all it’s glory, allowing its rays to inject my brain, unclogging all the feelings of cluster phobia; but when it was snowing, I was trapped. The snow was like falling brain-freeze flakes, miniscule puffs of white, voracious bombs, guarding, waiting outside to melt away the little heat my body could produce in this frozen hell.
 This winter was the coldest I’ve ever experienced, but hopefully not for long; although the weather man ensured that there was just one more month of frigid endurance. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, the anticipation was growing at the thought of seeing the sun in all it’s glory again; I could almost smell it now; the warmth would soon embrace my bones. I opened my eyes and exhaled, I turned around and my eyes caught sight of my laptop; forlorn and useless it sat there taunting me. I needed to release this gnawing tension that was simmering, eating at my patience.
 I walked over to my stereo; my hands outstretched, reaching desperately for comfort. I grabbed the first CD my fingers touched, opened it, roughly jammed it in to the little slit and pressed play. The Killers - Mr Brightside began. I immediately knew that my hands had chosen right. This was the CD that Stephanie, my editor had made for me a couple weeks ago; a collaboration of my favourite artists. I turned up the volume to an almost ear bleeding level; the music hummed beneath my skin, vibrating my pores. My body began to shake, moving in sync to every beat. I was jumping now, my hair violently swinging, lashing against my face; it was rejuvenating, like soft stinging whips slapping me awake. I was dancing, moving every limb, prancing around the living room, screaming the song lyrics till my throat burned.
   By the time the fifth song started, Coldplay’s, Viva La Vida, sweat was running down my back. I was standing on my couch, a pot spoon in my hand posing as a microphone; my ears were throbbing but I didn’t care, I continued my private concert, me playing a tone deaf singer, my own groupie and number one fan balled in one.
   Forty- five minutes later, I was lying on the floor. It was quiet again; the cathartic experience the music instilled in me was slowly wearing off, but inspiration was growing, replacing the emptiness with faces, places, names, agony, bliss, plots involving incidents and maybe a happy ending. I smiled widely. It had worked; the music was like medicine for my soul.  
   I got up; my muscles aching with every move, but I had to get it down; the words were flowing fast now. What a miracle! Three weeks of plastic wrap covering my brain, shrinking it to pebble size, now ripping, as my brain re grew to its normal familiarity. I knew the sun was definitely around the corner.
   I felt as though my laptop smiled at me as I sat down on the tan office chair in front of it. My face reflected on the black screen and I realised my hair was stuck to my sticky, sweaty cheeks. I pressed the power button and took off my sweater, wiping my face with it before I flung it on the back of the couch. My tee was drenched; I needed a shower, but getting these words out of my head and onto paper was my priority, my hygiene could wait.
   The familiar melody sent a thrill through my blood stream as my laptop booted up; its beaming light welcomed me like a bear hug. Then, out of no where, his face suddenly appeared. My body jumped back a little as my thoughts resurfaced the image. I hadn’t seen it in almost a month since disconnecting my wireless. But there it was radiating and handsome as if I saw him yesterday. Suddenly, all the memories of his face from the last year began zooming, flashing like a slide show. An entire month of resistance washed down the drain in a few seconds. This can’t be happening again. My fingers gripped the desk as I remembered. It was the day winter started, early November last year that it had spiralled out of control.
    I was propped in front my computer, like I was right now, hoping to get a hint of inspiration to finish the highly anticipated children’s novel I always wanted to write, but the white page was saturated with the memory of his beautiful face. Why couldn’t I resist him? It was like an ultrasonic sound that only I could hear, it called out to me and I immediately raced to type his name into the Google tool bar. I wanted to know him, to look into his emerald eyes and tell him that I loved him; what! How could I love someone I didn’t even know? How was it possible for my heart to yearn for someone I never met? It’s simply not possible, it’s madness and should be illegal; but yet every time I closed my eyes his face was all I saw. His illuminating smile made me blush cherry red and giggle like a little school girl. His voice, the little I had heard of it in interviews I watched over and over, was an intoxicating drug and I felt entranced as though I was under hypnosis.
     My eyes burned and I closed them, squeezing them tight trying to push his face to the back of my mind. My attempt was futile of course, I couldn’t be so lucky, and I was pulled into his trance again. I opened my eyes to see his modelesque face staring back at me.
     The picture implanted in my brain, the one that was playing right now, was the last one I had seen of him. It was taken from a professional photo shoot; the scenery was breathtaking, almost desert-like. There were a couple of tall, mushroom-like trees that tented the heat emitting from the cloudless panoramic blue. The light from the afternoon sun dazzled behind him and highlighted the pale blonde streaks in his golden brown hair. My heart ached; it was an exquisite pain of wanting someone so unattainable. The worse part of it was, I wasn’t the only girl feeling this way. Millions of girls were crazy about him. They obsess and fantasise and scream his name when they see him. Every girl who was in love with him has probably done the same thing I am doing right now; gawking at his picture, hoping he’d jump out and become their everlasting love. Only in my case he’d have to jump out of my head. I smirked at the thought.
     I shut my eyes again. I was not going to let the last three months ruin the progress I had made. My wireless was still disconnected, so I knew I could not be tempted again, letting his stupid, yes I said it stupid face distract me again. My stomach churned a little at my choice of words. I let out a sigh and opened my eyes. He was gone. My last thoughts were returning as fast as they had left. I glanced at the desk; my hands were still gripping it. I pulled them off and saw that my fingernails had dug shallow indents into the wood.
    I swallowed hard and I concentrated on the screen. I doubled clicked on Microsoft Word and as the white page appeared, my fingers responded immediately; they moved lightning fast against the keyboard; I thought smoke would suddenly emerge from its vents. A frenzy had empowered me; it was like I was high from an immense dose of candy. I was not going to break, not even for a minute; I was not going to allow him to push his way back out from my sub conscious again.
     Three hours and twelve scattered pages later, I had written the first chapter and the relatively important points of the plot. Most of what I had imagined was drained from my brain. I felt relieved and lighter, and in desperate need of a shower. I glanced at the clock, it was one am. My stomach growled as I saved my work and made my way to the bathroom. I had forgotten to eat in the middle of my quandary. I’d eat something light before I go to bed, remembering my mother’s words as I stepped into the shower, ‘Never eat a full meal before bed or it’ll haunt you in your dreams.’
     The hot water felt as revitalizing as the sun’s heat, but in liquid form. I soaked my hair in the cascade of warmth and lathered a sizeable amount of my lavender shampoo, washing out all the traces of sweat. I let the water run down my neck and my back, releasing all the knotted muscles and tension from the prolonged sitting. The time elapsed longer than I’d expected; the hot water ran lukewarm now. I sighed and turned off the shower and got out. I roughly dried my hair, scrunching the ends, soaking my towel with the water. Tiredness was overpowering me now; I quickly finished drying off and hustled through the door and into my bedroom for something, anything to wear. My hands grabbed a handful of cotton and I hurriedly tried to find the neck hole of one of the pieces.
    When I was finished, I made my way to the kitchen, my pink and white spaghetti strap pyjamas was clearly a wrong choice as I shivered when I reached to open the faucet to fill water into the electric kettle. My eyes searched the kitchen for something to eat. I took my ‘Footprints in the Sand’ cup out of the cupboard and placed a tea bag into it. It was my favourite cup; my aunt had given it to me for my fifteenth birthday. The footprints were faded now, but I still drank my tea in it as I always did since I got it. I went to the fridge for the milk and my eyes caught the chive and onion cream cheese spread. I took it out and I glanced to the counter ensuring myself that the whole wheat bread was still there.
 I plugged in the toaster and placed two slices in the slits. I made my tea while I waited; always two sugars and a dash of milk. A couple minutes later, the bread popped up, making me flinch at the sound; I was such a wimp, I always jump at every little ordinary thing; I was definitely my mother’s daughter. I spread a light layer of the cream cheese on each slice, and then sat at the small round table in the centre of the kitchen to eat my pitiful, late dinner.
 Fifteen minutes later I was full enough that my stomach didn’t bother me anymore, but I still wasn’t satisfied. I’m not a breakfast person, but pancakes did sound good for the morning. I cleaned up making sure everything was back in its place and after brushing my teeth, I snuggled under the thick duvet covers. My mind was at ease now, ready for a restful night, and somehow knowing that, his face resurfaced again.
“Oh,” I groaned. I want to sleep. But his face was peaceful, calming; his eyes delicate like a soothing lullaby. I smiled as I understood; he wasn’t there to haunt me but to induce comfort. My body felt heavy and drifted quickly into unconsciousness.