The Tin-Kin
“The sky’s far away. There’s cold flagstone on the floor and a dark ceiling that folds in on me. I look for the door, get just a sense ae it, a solid blackness shut tight in the pit ae my stomach. The place reeks like a dirty close.
I shiver. Cold. But my jacket smells warm. It’s smoke and spilt whisky. Pain circles the back ae my heid, pressing down, oil-like. I’m in a corner, one arm stretchin out so my fingers just stroke the light and turn silver at the tips. I try and sleep, pretendin it’s ...summer and that I’m in one ae the caves near the beach, warm sand for a mattress. But it’s too quiet. Nae waves crashing or gulls crying here. I’m swallied alive.
A chair scrapes the floor somewhere, metal, grindin like machines at the scrap yard. The sound rakes up my throat. I try and work out where it comes from but there’s echoes in this place. Echoes and drips. Slether trickles cool on my cheek but I cannae lift a hand tae wipe it. My arms feel deid from the elbows down. Footsteps get nearer, stop, and someone keeks through the letterbox hatch.MoreLess
I shiver. Cold. But my jacket smells warm. It’s smoke and spilt whisky. Pain circles the back ae my heid, pressing down, oil-like. I’m in a corner, one arm stretchin out so my fingers just stroke the light and turn silver at the tips. I try and sleep, pretendin it’s ...summer and that I’m in one ae the caves near the beach, warm sand for a mattress. But it’s too quiet. Nae waves crashing or gulls crying here. I’m swallied alive.
A chair scrapes the floor somewhere, metal, grindin like machines at the scrap yard. The sound rakes up my throat. I try and work out where it comes from but there’s echoes in this place. Echoes and drips. Slether trickles cool on my cheek but I cannae lift a hand tae wipe it. My arms feel deid from the elbows down. Footsteps get nearer, stop, and someone keeks through the letterbox hatch.MoreLess
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