NEW WRITING: The theme.

 

He sat in the corner of the room - ass on the floor, back - straight against the buckled wall. His wrists balanced on his raised knees - his hands draped, long fingers fluttering delicately to a theme only he could hear. He was 18, he was 35, he was 63. He would sigh - but he had done plenty of that already - so he just squeezed his eyes together - waited patiently - then opened them wide - so wide it hurt. But the scene was still the same - of course it was. Bed, rug, desk, lamp, window to nowhere, locked door. He kept his fingers fluttering to the theme that was running around the inside of his head - a continuous loop, and kept his knees steady. he glanced over to the single bed - sheet and blanket, tightly folded - as he imagined a military bed would be - but only imagined. The single slender slab of his phone sat midway between the pillow at one end of the bed, and his casually thrown hoodie at the other. The phone may have rung, may have left a message - may not. The theme in his head wouldn't let him shift focus - and he had to focus. He shifted his head a little - sliding from side to side on his thin neck until he heard his bones crack. He moved his bottom lip inwards, so that he could hold it tight between his teeth - not enough to draw blood - just enough to hold on, hold steady. His long slim fingers fluttered as he stayed his ground - corner of the room - ass on the floor - back against the wall - bony wrists balanced on his even bonier knees - listening to the theme rolling around in his head.