Stories of the Street - Nine

The piece of red cloth is close to his face. With his eyes wide open he can bring the material into focus and then gradually shift out of focus until the red is a warm, soft blur. In and out of focus he can watch the whole terrain of red and marvel at how the light plays on the surface changing the character of red from a shallow, bright glare down to an earthy, burgundy shadow.

As he gazes on this he wonders at the way the threads are brought together and held in such a tight pattern and he keeps being amazed at the velvet surface of the material. From the tiniest thread to the broadest expanse of cloth the red is held in place, trapped on the surface, yet sometimes the light seems to dance across its folds like sprites.

He reaches out and the sensation of the cloth against his skin is new and exciting. All of the gazing in the world could not have prepared him for this moment as his fingers brush lightly across the velvet red surface. It is not hard and its not smooth yet there are elements of both in this new sensation. You can feel things through this and he discovers that with one hand behind the material and one in front he can increase the sensations while griping and letting go of his hands and of the material in between.

Movement is difficult here and his aim is seldom accurate, but once he gets a hold, he is reluctant to let go. With both his hands locked solid on the material he inadvertently pulls the material towards his face. The thing looms up to him at a shocking rate but, before he can begin to panic, he discovers that all of the wonderful sensations enjoyed when touching it with his hands can be magnified when brushing the material against his face.

The feelings are both soothing and exciting but he finds it frustrating when he tries to control them and it just does not work. He just cannot get those hands and arms working properly. As he pulls it closer to his face and rubs the edge of it on his face he notices two new things.

The first is the smell. It has a hard edge, not easily placed but familiar. Like a memory of one of his parents in a darkened room a long time ago. The smell grows stronger as he rubs the material but he cannot place its origins.

The second thing is that he feels a change inside him. It is like a rushing sensation building from deep within and he recalls that vague discomfort he had been feeling since before his encounter with the red cloth. The discomfort spreads like a wave and behind it he senses relief which surfaces like a spring as a warm fluid gushes from his mouth, discolouring the red.
At that point, his mother looks down to discover that her baby has been sick again. This time he has managed to throw up on the edge of her velvet jacket. It has been dangling in front of him all the time she has been standing outside a shop, locked in conversation with a neighbour.