Is This The End?

Here is a short story I first wrote for a competition in 2015. I've resurrected the main piece and altered it for the blog, along with an illustration to help set the scene. I hope you like it.

Confused and disorientated, Spencer surfaced, connecting once more with his conscious thoughts.

“How the hell did I get here?” And while he was on the subject, “Where exactly is here?”

Everything was dark, so much so the blackness appeared to be expanding in front of Spencer’s eyes, engulfing him and playfully teasing his claustrophobia until he realised he was not breathing. With difficulty he instructed himself to take some slow deep breath, clawing his way back from absolute panic to cloying anxiety which loitered with intent and remained static, looking unlikely to be going away anytime soon.

Digging his fingernails deep into his palms, as he had done so many times before, Spencer regained some feeling again, registering the pain signals traversing the nerve pathway up his arms from his hands. This also raised an awareness in him of a dull throbbing ache originating in the back of his head. He had a vague recollection of paying Gibson a visit, to try at least to identify some common ground for us to forge a truce.

I knew it was wrong to take a cut of the money, but you can't blame me for wanting more than what life had dealt me so far.

Orphaned at five, living rough between the three spires before winter got the better of me and I was forced to work in the mills to earn a meal.

Greed got the better of sensibility, and foolishly i thought Gibson would not find out, although if the rumours were true, he does have eyes and ears everywhere.

I vaguely recollect going to his workshop, and seeing the door ajar, with a candle flickering in the window I assumed he was in the back counting the spoils of the daily take. I went into the shack and headed for his lodgings before turning towards a noise from which emanated behind me...

That was the last I remember. “Where the hell am I?”

Back to his current predicament Spencer had started to notice more about his surroundings as his sensory perceptions began to kick in.

Illustration by SM-G

There was definitely an intense sweet smell of wood which reminded him of Christmas at the workhouse in Coventry, and just as cold. The scent was so intense, he could almost taste it. Unfortunately his Proprioception was still catching up, which prevented him from confirming if he was in a horizontal or vertical position.

Either way at least he noted to be resting on a soft cushioned surface which reminded him of resting in the haystacks of Cooper's farm on summer evenings, albeit the cover felt cool to the touch and as smooth as silk on his bare arms.

For a fleeting moment he considered that things couldn't be all bad, being somewhere that was so soft and gentle.

Spencer decided to try and move his head to see if this would clear the grogginess he felt, but to his dismay there was something solid directly in front of his face which restricted his movements and produced a dull thud that resonated within the enclosed space around him.

Fear gripped him firmly, like a child lost and alone. The breathlessness returned worse than before, as Spencer finally realised where he was. The ensuing panic drained what energy he had recovered over the last few minutes. With a final futile attempt to remain conscious Spencer’s thoughts spun like a top that was whipped.

He remained uncomfortably aware of a single phrase repeating itself over and over in his head, which began to slowly fade away into the distance.

“Is this the end?”

Steve McCarthy-Grunwald