.: 2009

The following is a story i have written for my final major project. It is loosly based on Wladyslaw Szpilman's story, alternatively known as 'The Pianist'.

UNTITLED (for now)

Alone. Alone not in a single building or even a single part of a city, but a whole city consisting of chimneys and burn't out buildings pointing to the sky.

It was beginning to get cold, particularly at night. I would huddle in the rags that I had found to keep warm. To keep myself from going mad in my isolation I decided to lead as disciplined a life as possible. I had a watch-which i conscientiously kept wound and drew a timetable by it.

I lay motionless all day to conserve what strength I had left, putting my hand out only once around midday to fortify myself with a rusk and a mug of water sparingly portioned out. From early morning until I took this meal, I lay there with my eyes closed.

When darkness came I fell asleep. I would wake around one in the morning and go in search of food by the light of matches. I looked in the cellar, finding a little oatmeal here, a few pieces of bread there, some dank flour, water in tubs, buckets and jugs. I passed a spider on these expeditions, he was the sole companion whose presence I need not fear.

Day by day I would lie on the floor in the attic, often men would come into the building in search of loot, each of these visitations another strain on my nerves, for I was mortally afraid they would find me. Yet somehow or other they always left the attic alone.

Novemeber came and the first snow fell. The cold weather troubled me more and more under the pile of rags I had collected to keep myself warm. Now they were thickly covered with soft white snow when I woke in the morning. I had made my bed in a corner under a part of the roof that was still intact, but the rest of it was gone.

One day, I caught glimpse of my reflection in a window pane. I examined myself in this improvised mirror. At first I could not believe that the dreadful sight I saw was really myself: my hair had not been cut for months and I was unshaven and unwashed. The hair on my head was thickly matted, my face almost covered with a growth of dark beard, quite heavy by now, and where the beard did not cover my skin it was almost black. My eyelids were reddened and I had a crusted rash on my forehead.

What tormented me was not knowing what was going on outside. After seeing my reflection, I decided to use some of my sparse water supply to have a wash, and at the same time I would light a fire in the only intact stove to cook the remains of my oatmeal. I was suffering from the lack of hot food. I was to leave my hiding place by day and travel down these stairs. I felt I would fall ill if I did not warm my stomach with that porridge here and now.

Clutching my bowl, I hurried back to the attic, there was a small stained-glass window on the last mezzanine floor of the building in which I could observe the neighbourhood. Looking out of the window I saw below me hundreds of burn't out villa's, and entire part of the city now dead.

I was seized by a sudden longing to hear human speech and my own voice replying. Could I even still speak? I imagined exchanging words with others.

After two days I went in search of food, this time I planned to lay in a good supply so that I did not have to search by day. Again I passed the spider on the stairs and went hunting in the kitchen cupboards- I was so absorbed with my search that I never heard anything until a voice right behind me said "What on earth are you doing here?"