Next Big Book Thing: The Man Who Lived at the End of the World by Robert Davies @ahundredstories

Excerpt 2:

Sitting back into the soft chair, I realised that I had spent so many of those years trapped in that nightmare of a building that my escape still didn’t feel real. It had been so long since I had even felt the simple pleasure of relaxing into the embrace of a good chair. My wet clothes rubbed loudly on the leather as I sank into it.

A smile crept upon my face, fed by the satisfaction of a full belly and a slaked thirst, and the tension in my muscles seeped into the soft leather while my eyelids slowly sank in rhythm with the rain outside. I even heard myself let out a sigh of contentment, and that part of my soul that hadn’t dared to rise up or float in so many years now drifted into dreams.

At first came the euphoria of simply surrendering to them, filled as they were with sunlight and sky, long grass and space and colours I had forgotten. Just for a few moments every shackle was left behind, even the inevitability of gravity, and I flew.

Then I dreamed of her, and it woke me.

My heart pounded as I sat upright in a room now swirling with darkness and panic. The muted sound of rain faded slowly back in past my breaths. I looked around me and saw only shadows. The last slivers of daylight were being pulled out of the room and down behind the horizon, and a chill crept into the air and soaked into my wet clothes, making me shiver with an aching cold. I winced as the pain in my cut hand and my knees shot back to wake me fully, and I realised with surprise that I had slept the afternoon hours away. I stood, my still-sore muscles fighting the clinging damp of my clothes. I had to reorient myself after the freedom of my dreams, compress myself back into my heavy body, and remember the world where I lived.