Across the Street

By Shrish Sivakumar and Soham M.P

A pen slipped from my hand and struck the cold, hard tile. The sound woke me. I lifted my head from the desk, roused by the sound. The lamp was still on. Papers lay where I had left them, filled with handwritten notes I didn’t remember writing; time had moved without me.

It was in this room that I had awakened myself atop the hard wooden desk. Though the only thing sustaining my body was fear and stress, sleep was a privilege I could not afford, for dawn only brought another checklist and another itinerary and another quota to meet.

As I bent down to retrieve my pen, the room felt warmer than it should have. The air carried something unfamiliar, faint, but wrong. The heat was a nuisance that itched at my skin, but more than curiosity, it was frustration that grew at this distraction as I then went to investigate.

Before me, at a distance outside the window, was a house as similar to my own as those around it, with the exception of an uneven, dim light emitting from one of the windows until it flickered, then brightened. I watched until the glass burst and fire filled the room behind it, growing larger with every gust of wind. The flames crept through the walls of the building until the centre erupted in red flames like a Roman candle, and as I reared back from the flash and the heat into the room, adrenaline surged through my now-shaking hands. 

I looked at the phone, trying to remember what number to dial and what I would say when the familiar tick of the clock brought my attention back to the desk. It was there as the clock grew louder that, with a gush of fear, I thought: How much time would it take to phone the authorities, wait for them, and explain the situation? Was it worth the time to bear the responsibility of this task when I am already running on borrowed time?

The answer that resonated in my mind was a NO.

It was not worth my time to deal with this distraction while my mind’s mental capacity was wearing thinner by the minute. Frustration gnawing at me about wasting even more time thinking, I picked the phone up, turned it over, and set it down. Calling would mean staying. Staying would mean losing time I couldn’t replace. I closed the window. I turned the fan higher. The room cooled, though the smell lingered, thin yet persistent. I sat back down and returned to my desk, caged by responsibility and trudging through every remaining page.

And as both dawn and my will were yet to break, the faint sounds of ambulance sirens and gushing water resonated through the closed window and curtain. Yet my hollow efficiency continued throughout my labour-sodden day until the next deadline.

Shrish is an enthusiastic writer, fascinated by the reflections of natural themes and conditions in literature and science. 

Soham.M.P is a poet who focuses on the f historical conflict and the human cost of military objectives. Drawing inspiration from 20th-century history, they aim to bring forgotten stories to light through rhythmic and formal verse.