descriptive writing

descriptive writing

Staggering through the barren, deserted city, the only sound I hear is the ghostly echoing of my own footsteps on the cracked, uneven pavement. In the distance I see a red London bus, a familiar object in an alien world. As I approach, a sharp crunching noise sounds under my feet, the ground before me littered in shards of broken glass. It is then that I look up; the bus is upturned on its side, all the windows smashed and blown through, the bright red paint scratched and flaking, scarring the smooth surface to reveal the dull sheen of the steel beneath. I run my hand over the cool metal, feeling the unusual texture. As I lift my hand, I see my fingers are encrusted with thick orange rust. Rubbing the stains from my fingertips, I continue to wander by the bus; taking in every unsettling detail, from the ripped and shredded upholstery to the bent and misshapen steering wheel. My body knocks against the dirty bus tyre, which spins slowly, producing an ominous squeal that penetrates the serene silence like a hot poker through snow. My eyes drift up from the turning wheel and I focus on the horizon, the cityscape, the Thames, everything is still.

I%u2019ve been walking for what seems like an eternity; I can feel my mind breaking down from the inside, the pain of lost memories stabbing into the back of my head. Reaching back and clasping my head in my hands, I sense an irregularity protruding from the back of my skull. As I run my hands delicately over my shaved, bristly hair I feel crudely sewn stitches breaking through my flesh, tearing through layers of dead skin and congealed blood. I turn and catch a glimpse of a disheveled person in a shop window. Their skin is grey, with the tips of the fingers and eyelids yellowing with sickness. His head seems out of proportion, his flesh fits as if it is too small, stretched across his skull like a canvas, with a look of sheer desperation and neglect painted on his face. I stare at the figure; the figure is staring back with expressionless, dead eyes that protrude from their sunken sockets. He%u2019s dressed in a grimy hospital gown, the soiled fabric clinging to his skeletal figure like a shroud. His legs and arms are covered in yellowing bruises and his joints are swollen, as if recovering from being harshly beaten. The poor condition of the man makes me feel ill, as I look away, he mirrors my movements, and a horrifying thought strikes me.
This man,
This creature from a nightmare,
It%u2019s me.

Tears spring to my eyes, before me I see a wall, fluttering with photos of lost family members, flapping in the cruel, bitter wind. I leap at the wall, scrabbling, tearing and ripping through photos, in an attempt to find the one that bears my face. Lost in the deafening sounds of ripping paper all around me I let out a despairing scream, though my mind is dead to the sound of my own voice. I clamp my hands over my ears, trying to block out the feeling of terror, of panic. I can feel my heart pumping violently; squeezing blood through my veins. I hear my heart booming with every convulsion and sense it pounding harder and harder against my ribcage, like a fierce beast escaping the bars of a cage. The wind drops suddenly; as the whirling photos begin to settle, the feeling of terror lifts. Tentatively, I take my hands away from my ears %u2013 the world is silent once again.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flapping page of a London newspaper. A light breeze brings it towards me, nudging it against my foot. Picking it up, I smear the dirt and grime from the faded headline, turned streaky grey from the sun. I study the lettering; the writing somehow seems foreign to me. My breath catches in my lungs; the headline reads, %u201CEvacuation.%u201D I can%u2019t make out any other words. The newspaper drops from my hands, drifting down to the dirty pavement, lost in the abandon of scattered litter once again.