Hayley Conick
Bio
London-Welsh. Vegetarian. INFJ. B3. Storylover, bookworm and distant dreamer.
Stories (1/0)
The lady on the train
The first thing I noticed wasn’t the speed, or the acceleration but the fact that my tongue no longer felt like my tongue, but rather a sandpaper covered sock stuck to the roof of my mouth. There was an intense, persistent throb radiating around the inside of my skull. As I peeled open my reluctant eyes and absorbed the harsh strip lighting above my head, a faint wave of nausea passed over me. A hangover, I deduced. My left cheek was oddly cold and, I slowly realised, had adhered itself, presumably with my own sleep-induced saliva, to the train window. I had the sensation that there was something slightly sticky lodged somewhere behind my ear. Attempting, but failing to examine it in my reflection, I looked past the mirror image of myself and into the pitch-black void which lay beyond the glass. I had the strong sense that we were speeding through the countryside, the lack of even a prick of light from a car or house or a single lowly streetlight made conspicuous by its absence. We were, it seemed, very far from anywhere.
By Hayley Conick2 years ago in Criminal