Martha glanced over her shoulder, Jim was still hunched over the table nursing his beer. She closed the bedroom door and slid the suitcase out from under the bed. She knew now by weight that there wouldn't be long to go now. The tin can had started off a shell of aluminium,(more) it was now comfortingly heavy. The coins no longer rattled but fell almost soundlessly on a bed of further coins. Fridays were the best day to sneak a coin or two. Jim would have been payed and depending on what kind of a day he had, he would have visited the pub on the way home from the mine. The bad evenings were better for coins but worse for everything else. The good evenings sometimes yielded nothing. Martha would be on tenderhooks, hovering over the oven, trying to keep his dinner warm and trying to keep the children quiet. She would take his coat and fuss over him trying not to spark his temper. It was between hanging up his coat and putting out his dinner, when his back was turned, getting another beer from the fridge that the magic happened. Sometimes she fumbled the coat deliberately, often warranting a cruel word or smack across the face, but it was worth it. Fumbling the coat, spilling the coins, collecting them hurridly was all part of the master plan. The tin can was filling up, it was her and the children's only chance of escape, of freedom and of peace. Martha pushed the suitcase back under the bed and stood to straighten her hair before facing her husband in the next room. As she turned she caught a glimps of herself in the mirror, behind her, leaning against the door, with a smug grin on his face was Jim.(less)
Roland felt a sharp pang in his head as he snapped from his uncomfortable slumber. He held his throbbing forehead in his hands and groaned...the rocking of the ship was too violent for *this* method of transport.
Curled up into a fetal position, his neck and(more) forehead ached. He wasn't sure if the smell was from the iron drum he was stuffed into or from the fresh cut on his head. Probably both.
Stuck in the darkness like this, it was hard to keep track of time. Had it been hours? Days? Weeks? The darkness and boredom made it hard just to keep his sanity; keeping time was out of the question.
His only solace was the thought of the golden sands on the Sea of Sol. Far from the dark, dreary smog of his parents's old home. Free from the human waste that dribbled across the porch of his front door.
He stuck his thumb in his mouth, and tried to pretend it was a straw, dipped into some sugary cocktail.
The barrel lurched, and his head whipped forward, smacking against the cold iron. His eyes rolled back and his head fell backwards, going limp. His thumb slipped out, leaving a trail of drool running down his chin, as he returned back to a sunny, sandy dreamland...where he couldn't seem to shake his strange migraine.(less)