alisonlittleblog

Moving Forward is a fictional Short Story written by Alison Little, none of the characters and events depicted are based on real people or their endevours.

Sal lies in bed dozing, in and out of consciousness between asleep and awake. The room was warm as July on Long Island often graced endless days of sunshine. She was in the staff accommodation for the hotel she was housekeeping for, her second summer job of the season. A grand, but secluded in location, sea facing hotel on an Island between the North and South fork of Long Island. Shelter Island had appealed to her when the agency rep had read the list of locations of people needing staff in her monotone voice, it had sounded safe. As with all grandiose hotels, its staff quarters were cramped and squalid. She was penned in between three girls, actually from her own country working abroad from the summer, however, she only actually had any time for one of them. She had finished early for the day, it was Tuesday and the weekend hotel trade had been and gone so they were finished not long after lunch time.

She lies under a cotton sheet brushing against her skin, no duvet as it was far too mild. She had needed to sleep loads since she arrived on the Island, just completing her workload then going to bed to snooze again. She had made attempts to be sociable with the other workers and the girls in her quarters, but she was so exhausted she was not her ‘Laughing, joking’ self and at that moment in time, she was unsure if she would ever be again.

She drifts again into sleep, falling deeper and deeper into the dream world of the pillow. To the right of her gaze she see’s a dagger, she focuses on her imaginary vision. It is, in fact, more of a miniature sword with a blade which curves towards the tip. Almost a female bowie knife, similar in size but more curvaceous, gracious towards the the fine point of the tip finished off with the ergonomic grip of the handle. The handle is a marbled range of greens, a decorative scroll is etched towards the blade mount and the encasing at the end of the form. The blade is encased in a sheath, walnut and highly polished, the tip and entrance having parts repeating the scroll from the handle. A magnificent piece made with the latest technologies but finished by hand with the care of a master craftsman.

Sal could see the dreams vision of the weapon as real as could touch the cold stainless steel, feel the weight in her hand and run her finger over the sharp blade. She imagines whipping the knife from the sheath, easily gliding out of the holster, then bringing the curved point towards her neck. The sharp edge glistens in the daylight, the serrated edge grating aginst her forefinger. The safety of the sheath has gone, the blade is free to hunt and destroy. Sal watches the vision of her hand grasping the miniature sword as if from a great height looking down on herself from the girders of the room. She imagines the point of the curve moving towards her throat, she thinks this would be easy, it would all be over instantly. She has a vision of herself slashing into the jugular, blood spurting out from her human form, she would be dead instantaneously. Her demons, her pain and her existence would be no more, she had put an end to things.

At that instant the sun moved another degree around the building, sunlight pouring into the room full beam to remind Sal it was still there like the fully functional World. She flipped over onto her back, directly joining the waking world. Her breath was deep and her heart raped at full throttle. In coming back down from the adrenaline of the dream she began to think softly to herself ‘No I don’t want that’. She was low, but not that low, she looked to her right, the blade was no longer there, it had never existed in the reality of the daily spectrum. She engaged her mind in not finding an alternative, she must go on, things would be okay again.

She realised she had been spending too much time in bed, the smell of urine from low standard American plumbing engaging in the senses of its inhabitants combined with the makeup powder Debray of her fellow occupants was exasperating her misery. Too much time on her own dwelling over what had happened, she needed to get out and about, explore and take in what this secluded island had to offer. She dressed in her summer denim shorts, combining them with a seventies style retro print fitted T-Shirt, her clothes feeling loose as she had not eaten properly since she had been in Maine. A slice of pizza here and there combined with a few mouthfuls of the staff meals dished out routinely as part of the job. She didn’t bother to fix her hair and makeup, trying to look nice had seemed alien to her since her escape route across New England. She felt like hiding under a massive trench coat, but it was too warm to be practical.

On her wanders, Sal walks away from the hotel along the Sea front but away from the limited bustle of the Islands quasi-centre where the one independent bar and the mini supermarket where located. Towards the remoteness of the secluded beach area she walks, she veers toward a pebbled shore and a small boat yard. There were several vessels present, a large power vehicle pulled half out the water, moored securely but ready to use instantly when required. A second hand controlled craft was arched around with supports for repair works to be carried out. Then after passing a few nets she came across what seemed to be her destiny to find: a small vessel full of water. The small dingy like fibreglass body was filled to the brim with the liquid of the sea environment. A mix-up, a contradiction, outside in. The boat, which was supposed to float on and protect from water has filled the fluid and the surrounded area was dry as a bone. A conflict of reality where the void and the surrounding space where in contrast to the norm. Sal paused as she pondered over the topsy-turvy existence which had presented itself in her vision. Then she realises what had happened, this was not a supernatural experience, the vessel had simply collected rain water, the algae and sea plants had simply spread onto the marine vehicle. It was all perfectly normal, the seaman had not thought to store the hull upwards, left to nature’s devices it had been transformed into some kind of man made rock pool.

Sal walked on from the boat yard, further away from the tourist bustle and towards the most rural aspects of the shoreline. In this, she met a long term resident of Long Island, a pleasant lady with a dog on the leash due to the low-level traffic of the road, the occasional vehicle passing. She said hello to the lady as she seemed friendly, then in missed being near her family pet dog for several months she was delighted to see the canine. She bends down to stroke his shaggy fur, looking to run her hand around his chin. At the point, her hand pats her head the dog looks her straight in the face. His eyes protruding from the mountains of wiry hair. The expression on his face reads:

‘You don’t need to pet me, I’m not a silly dog.’

Sal was somewhat shocked by this unusual reaction from one of mans best friends. No affection needed, no love and attention required for this mutt. Then she realises he must be some kind of working dog, he had reacted like a border collie or something similar. In talking to its owner about the breed: it was a Briard. They were used as herding dogs, they were good for farms mucking in with sheep handling and agricultural jobs where ever necessary. They didn’t want petting, they were the kind of dog if you were to throw a ball for them and shouted fetch they would ignore it, but if you were wearing a cap and it blew off in the wind it would run half a mile to retrieve it and return it to your person. Sal looked at the animal fawn and shaggy, eyes were hidden by masses fur, looking dusty by character not but the day’s activities, what a magnificent beast.

She walks on, impressed by the owner and the dog she had met. In turning a corner she comes across what seems to be a derelict house. In true New England fashion, it was wood framed and painted white, its windows looked to contain a desolate interior, it’s shell once great now dishevelled and peeling from a period of neglect. The plant life had grown over the lower windows and the wildflowers were not of the carefully selected variety. To the front of the property stood a full-size flag pole with the stars and stripes fluttering in the wind. However, The Old Glory was being represented in that sense, torn and bedraggled it flapped around the former residence. It’s outer edges frayed across the stripes, the stars of the canton soiled, and almost blood like red threading down onto the white of the stripes. The star spangled banner representing the USA, the Worlds guardian with its military might and technological advancement. The leading Global economy looking avoid of inhabitants and soiled in appearance. Sal saw an America which had not been of her dreams, the Hollywood films and the advertising frenzies, she saw the real United States.

As it was beginning to turn dark she decides to head back to the hotel. In retracing her she began to comprehend what had really happened to her, why she had fled across New England, she had been Raped.