It is not the light of dawn, it is harder than that, fixed, determined. The room is brighter and at first I struggle to understand what it is that is making it so. I am awake before I open my eyes, instinctively clutching to draw the sheet up over my bare skin. The unfamiliar sting of it, the confusing grip of it on my shoulders, across my lips. The stream is a constant gentle rhythm, it expands in my head until it fills my senses and follows me into sleep.Ĭold. I take the first deep breath and close my eyes, floating into half sleep, my body both woken and assured by the shifting of the heat. The curtains lift again, a definite movement now, I hear the fabric brush against the frame. The room’s stale smell of fabric, old carpet, dust and adolescence is gently teased apart and I can smell the land beyond, the meadows and fields, the trees of the thin copse that threads its way up the valley lane.
A summer breeze has found our small valley and begins to run between the houses, gently teasing at the windows. It moves again, the light tendrils of a breeze across my chest, the faintest running of air. I watch it, wondering if it was a trick of the light. Then – oh joy – the thin curtain seems to shift.
#RAID SOULLESS SKIN#
I focus on the sound of the stream, bringing the lightness of it into my head, willing it to lend the coolness of its water to my skin.Įventually, I feel the skin beneath my hand ease away from the heat. The land stays silent as the summer spreads like honey. Gradually it softens and I see the outline of the window, the four small square panes and beyond a deeper night. My breathing is shallow and I slide my hand down to my belly, holding it there gently, feeling the slightest murmur of my heart, the rise and fall of my breath. Everything is still, waiting, holding itself. I push the sheet down to my waist, hoping for cooler air but the room has become bloated with this summer night. I feel it rising from beneath the sheet, smothering my face. There is a sheen across my chest, a thin dampness to the touch and my skin holds the sun of the previous day. The curtain, half drawn, does not lift, it hangs in the heat, heavy with it. From outside, through the small attic window, the distant tumble of the stream that runs down this narrow valley brings into this suffocating space the promise of cool air. THE HEAT OF the summer’s night clings to the walls of my room.
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