White Dawn

A short story that I recently started writing.

The night couldn’t have been more perfect. Ethel sipped her hot cocoa and looked around the room, blinking tiredly as the warm liquid soothed her insides.

Just two weeks before Christmas, and the room was covered in lights and holly. There was just enough freshly fallen snow outside to cover the earth in a thin blanket, the windows completely frosted over. The blazing fire flickered warmly in the hearth, filling the room with a relaxing, gentle light. Ethel's normally rosy pink cheeks flushed crimson red from the heat, the blush creeping from her strong jaw to her dignified cheekbones. In the far corner, the Christmas tree she’d bought just for Abby was twinkling, the different colored lights sending patterns across the walls, reflecting in Ethel's richly dark green eyes. Stockings hung from the mantle, mistletoe was discouragingly swaying in front of the door, and a healthy, green wreath sat proudly on the other side of the front door, wishing a Merry Christmas to all that happened to pass by.

Yawning, Ethel glanced at the old clock ticking restlessly above the stone fireplace. Ten minutes to midnight. Deciding that nothing rather exciting was bound to happen at this hour, she yawned again and slowly heaved herself up off the couch.

“Might as well call it a night, ” she said aloud to herself, tossing her golden honey hair over her shoulder. After throwing her mug in the sink, figuring it could wait until morning to be washed, she trudged back into the living room to douse the fire and turn off the tree lights.

As she flicked the lights off and shuffled toward the stairs, a deafening squeal of tires pierced the silent night, followed by the earsplitting sound of metal scraping against pavement. Tearing her winter jacket from the coat rack, Ethel all but flew to the door, her footsteps light as air, and within seconds she was standing at the threshold, her eyes squinting in the abnormally black night.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

            The bright headlights of the car bore into the quiet night like two identical bolts of lightening, and at first Ethel had to hold her hand before her eyes, palm up, for the pupils of her eyes were still dilated after spending hours by the dim fire in the living room. When the ferocity of the light subsided, her brilliant green eyes sparkled curiously, taking in every inch of the wreck.

            The front bumper of the car was bent almost completely in half from the force of the impact, while the tree seemed to remain untouched. One of the headlights was cracked, sending a sliver of shadow across the snowy lawn amidst the bright glare of the light. As she drew nearer to the car, the snow crunching beneath her feet, Ethel could just make out the profile of a man slumped forward in the seat, his forehead resting heavily on the steering wheel.

            Panic gripped her heart at the sight of blood dripping down from the crown of his head to the fine line of his jaw. His eyes were shut, but his chest rose and fell methodically, as if he were asleep. His chestnut hair lay to one side of his face, and Ethel had to press her face against the glass and cup her hands around her eyes to be sure that he was indeed still breathing.   

            With trembling hands, she tapped the window lightly with one fingertip. The man did not even stir. He remained unmoving, the steady flow of blood from his forehead dripping rhythmically off his chin and onto his lap.

             Feeling slightly terrified, Ethel tapped the cold glass again, firmly this time, and still the strange young man appeared statue-like. His face was becoming paler with each passing second, and the blood pouring from his open wound did not cease. Wrapping her hand into a tight fist, she gave a hard knock on the window, but to no avail.

            “Damn it!” she cursed aloud, whirling around and staring out into the darkness, as if seeking solace within the forest of tall, skeletal trees, standing in silent witness.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

            A shrill cry was emitted from a second story window of the house nestled snugly in the snow behind her. “Abby,” Ethel breathed, her heart leaping to her throat. Turning her attention back to the man unconscious in the car, she gave a small gasp as his ghostly pale hands rose to grip the steering wheel tightly, his head still motionless against the wheel.

“Sir!” she called, furiously banging on the icy window. “Please, wake up!” To her surprise, fat little tears had begun to roll down her red, wind-whipped cheeks, her voice coming out in a choking sob. Terror ripped through her every limb as the cries from the upstairs bedroom became louder and more urgent.

            The man groaned, so softly at first that Ethel hadn’t heard it amidst her frantic knocking. Then again, much louder, and he slapped a frostbitten hand against the window, as if to silence her.

            Ethel jumped back in shock, her right hand clutching at the part of her jacket that hid her rapidly beating heart. At an agonizingly slow rate, the man lifted his bloodstained head, his eyes blinking hard as he tried to focus. Moaning softly, he put a hand to his aching head, and when he drew it back, it was soaked through to a scarlet red.

            “Sir?” Ethel asked timidly, taking small, careful steps toward the car. He didn’t acknowledge her presence, and she assumed he hadn’t heard her. His chocolate brown eyes continued to stare at his bloody hand in astonishment and wonder.

Author's Note

I really have no idea where I want to go with this story, but I just got a small idea in my head and began writing, and this is what I came up with. What I'd really like to know is if this kept your interest and would you like to read more?