Short Fictional Story (Revisited) Blue Haven

in #fiction5 years ago

I started this last year and then 'life' got in the way.

I have edited slightly and have almost finished the story as part of NaNoWriMo month.

Here is Chapter One.

Please do feel free to feedback constructively.

blue havon cover.jpeg

BLUE HAVEN

My Blue Self

I hear the glass tumbler drop to the floor, but I don’t move. With its dull thud, I know it hasn’t shattered, so I resist the urge to pick it up and concentrate on trying to retrieve more information.

Damn it, I can’t, it’s gone. No traces of my dreams remain. I rub the back of my hand from where it bluntly hit the glass as I lashed out in panic. As I count to ten and breathe in the same manner my therapist taught me, I am once again in control of my anxiety. Opening my eyes, I look down at myself and my bed covers to ensure they are still the same.

Yes, my blue self is still here.

You may wonder what my blue self is, It is hard to explain, but you will see. Clair and I, (My rather patronising therapist), have concluded on the idea that I have created my own heaven. I wouldn’t normally agree with her, but on this occasion, she is right- but only in parts. She thinks it is because I am trying to reconnect with my deceased husband, Frank. I am not trying to connect with him; this IS him. He created my blue heaven to protect me. I like to think of it as a blue haven.

As I step out of my light blue bed sheets, I brush down my crisp pyjamas to iron out any creases. I have specifically chosen these garments to match so when I slip into bed at night, I disappear into the blue haven, and that’s where it all happens.

Think I’m nuts yet? It doesn’t matter, they all do.

I am allowed one other colour in my haven and that is white, but only a splash of white is allowed. I look over at my bed and frantically start to put the bed sheets straight. It HAS to be perfect because I will get frustrated with the edge of the duvet cover if it dares to curl up and crinkle. To prevent this linen disaster, I set about rearranging the thick white quilt inside, and pat it back down before I strategically place my furry white show cushions on top. After I am satisfied that my bed is heaven ready, I turn around and dash across my thick white sheepskin rug to the other side of my room, where I pick up my journal and my special blue feathered fountain pen. I quickly rush back to pick up the tumbler before heading down my new blue carpeted staircase and flopping into my cosy, yes you guessed it, blue chair.

I mutter over and over to myself as I try to remember the dream, writing down every detail, until it’s nothing but a mass of blue scribble on a white page. I rip out the page, and I start again. This time focusing on writing neatly to get a clear description of my vision.

The orange dropped to the floor in front of black shoes, women’s shoes. I could hear screams and shouts, but I could also hear music, like soft jazz, but it wasn’t through a sound system, it’s a different sound as if was coming from the side of me. The orange was rolling in that direction, so I turn to look, but I wake up and the vision is gone.

I quickly flip over to the previous day’s entry

The black clock on the tall magnolia wall says 3.33 pm, a flash of a badge came into my mind. Blue and white with the name Kelly written across it. I see butchers, and the butcher and his female assistant look concerned. I hear her say to call security. Then I wake.

I don’t know the store, but I know what this means. Someone is going to get hurt tomorrow. I know it’s tomorrow because my dreams come every three weeks, for three nights at 3.33 am. Then it happens. Clair seems to think I am making this up because Frank died at 3.33 am.

I’m not, you will see.

I am sat in my blue chair, watching the next few hours drift by, until it is time for my next visit with Clair. You may be wondering why I keep visiting her if she never gets things right. But I have no choice. She is part of this. On the day I found her, I had a sign. I was looking on the internet for ways in which to kill myself. My screen froze, and her website flashed up- her BLUE website. The contact number was on the screen just staring at me. Then I looked at her name. Clair Bloomsbury. Its blue sound filled her second name.

She was part of this.

Frank had sent her to me.

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