Build it new old again
Build it old new again
first person out of third person
:
As my eyes greeted new dawn, the morning after the solution to my greatest Problem became clear, I reached my arm over to her side of the bed, which was cold and uninhabited. As I twisted my head to the right, my sight reinforced what my touch first communicated to me: She was not there. I grasped the opposite side of the bed and pulled as my body slid across the open land of the mattress until my head broke the plane and I was peering at the floor. I noticed the white carpet below me looked darker, sort of dirty, stained perhaps. I slowly lowered my right index finger until it made contact with the now gray carpet.
The white shag carpet was cold and as my finger kept pushing, moisture encompassed it. I found this quite odd, unsettling. I worked my hands around the bed and pulled until I was overlooking the foot of the bed. There on the floor was a very clear definitive line of moisture that intersected perpendicularly with the bed, halving it at my side and hers, my side dry her side wet. This interested me greatly. I pulled myself back to her side of the bed and flopped my feet on the wet carpet. I stood in the center of the soaking wet carpet and stared down at my feet, which were growing wetter and colder. I bounced a little so that the water squirted out under the sides of my feet. I stared at the carpet. There were no other footprints to be found. I was reminded, quite unexpectedly of a story I heard years ago. Apparently there was this odd damp spot on the floor when Vivien Leigh died, which had always puzzled me. I thought it seemed strange to be having that thought at this moment. Until I remembered that people often compared me to Laurence Olivier, looks wise at least, and then, then it all seemed clear (as mud).
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