In The Wind

I've been trying to write something for my creative writing group tomorrow. It’s been a manic month - work, life, or just plain procrastination means that I haven't written a single word, nor do I have any idea of what to write. The prompt is 500 words “On Awakening”, which sounds deep, but I’m torn between whether my piece should be a dream, something philosophical or introspective. In a desperate bid for inspiration (and sanity), I rifled through my old writing and found a piece from February 2019. It's tempting to tweak and recycle it... but that would be cheating. Wouldn't it? 

Update ... inspiration came to me in the early hours of this morning and I have been able to add a couple of hundred words so that I take an updated version tonight. :-)

IN THE WIND 

Woken up in the early hours of a cold winter morning, she lay in the darkness listening to the song of storm Eric as he wound his angry way between the buildings, whirling and wailing like an angry banshee looking for a soul to steal. Despite being warm and snug in bed, she reached out for the spare pillows and wrapped her arms around them, seeking to emulate the comfort that only the cuddle from a loved one can bring, and she pulled the duvet tighter around herself.    

Beyond the confines of her little flat and down the corridor, she could hear the wind pushing against the door as if trying to seek comfort in the warmth of the building.  There was something in the sound of the hinges rhythmically creaking that caused her apprehension.  The goosebumps on her arms were prickly and, though she knew not why, tiny butterflies fluttered and began to cause their own whirlwind in her stomach.  

She lay still in the darkness trying to rationalise her extreme reaction, telling herself that the storm outside was not a portent of doom but simply a mirror of her own restlessness and merely a reflection of a busy working week or of a difficult day to come.  She wished that she was not alone.  She wished that, when she had reached out and gathered the pillows to herself for comfort, it was warm flesh, rather cotton dressed polyester stuffing that she felt, and she imagined that her whispered "are you ok?" would be answered by the gentle sound of breathing or the utterance of an instruction to "go back to sleep". 

:-) Jolted from her reverie by a loud thud from within the flat, as something fell and hit the tiled floor of the bathroom, she turned on the lamp, climbed out of bed and went to investigate. Stepping into the bathroom she saw that the small window was open and she watched as the sheer white curtain fluttered in the breeze, like a spectre dancing with an invisible partner.

Relieved, she crossed the room and closed the window, silencing the curtain’s ghostly waltz. The sudden stillness that followed was almost as unsettling as the noise had been. She stood for a moment, listening, as the wind moved on in search of other cracks and corners to slip into.

In the soft light, a fallen bottle of shampoo lay harmlessly on the bathroom tiles. No intruder. No bad omen. Just the storm, and her mind playing tricks in the dark hours before dawn.

She returned to bed, pulling the duvet back over herself, tucking it in tight as if to keep out not just the cold but also the ache of loneliness that had crept in beside it. She closed her eyes and focused on the rhythm of her own breathing, slow and steady, until at last her thoughts quieted too.

Outside, Storm Eric continued his lonely lament. But inside, in her little flat, there was calm once more.