The Patissier

The door was locked now and the patting of feet in the corridor gave him a vicarious thrill. The closer human activity came to his bunker, his hovel, the more remote and secure he felt. The door was bolted and fire proof, making the comings and goings of the world joyously muffled.

The only windows were skylights which let in the pure dark blue of the night sky. He was giddy with relief as he sat on the sofa, wrenched his boots off, then his socks and let his head fall back against the thick stone wall. As he closed his heavy eyes, static exploded in the darkness, he felt dizzy, nauseous and so far beyond tired that sleep now seemed as terrifying as removing a bandage of a wound long since gangrenous.

He sat up, shuddered from head to toe, turned on the lamp and struggled into the bathroom. He drenched his head in cold water, shook off the excess and returned to the bedroom. The Patissier sat on the bed, turned on the laptop and selected Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet.

The music weighed heavy on him as he ran his hand along the floor at the foot of the bed. He brushed aside empty noodle cartons, plastic bags and dirty clothes. His hand settled on a glass bottle neck and gripped it to test it’s weight before raising it out of the darkness. He sat triumphant, unscrewing its lid, expectant of the descent of the angels, and the loosening of his shackles.


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