The Warehouse

42. Warehouse: Write about being inside an old abandoned warehouse.

It looked grand on the outside.

The outer walls were free of graffiti, and it even seemed like someone had taken pains to clear plants and debris from the area around it.

The only clue it was abandoned were the missing doors. The miserable teenager huddled on the previous block had muttered something and pointed this way when I had made my inquiry.

The look of fear and pain in his eyes haunted me as I approached the eastern door.

Inside, it was bleak.

The first thing that struck me was the smell. A stale mix of urine, old booze and cannabis.

My eyes took a minute to adjust after stepping in from the brilliant sunshine. Everything was stillness, the only sound the wind whipping around the open windows and doors. The glass panes were gone from most of the windows and some of the doors were boarded up. Others had been pried open.

Who would want to come in here, I wondered? Why was I in here, I wondered?

Love, I heard myself answer.

Graffiti lined the walls, up to about six feet high. The floor was strewn with litter.

Empty bottles of booze and candy wrappers. Fast food packages. Cigarette butts. Discarded needles.

A lump started to form in my throat.

Picking my way carefully through the junk, I moved further inside.

Aside from the trash, the floor was pretty much bare. A little further in, as my eyes grew used to the dim light, I found some cardboard.

A box had been ripped open and spread haphazardly across the floor as protection from the wet and cold. Judging from the damp imprint on it, it hadn’t helped much.

A sudden flutter of wings broke the silence. My heart leapt up and joined the lump in my throat.

Above me in the rafters, a pigeon had been disturbed. It took flight, leaving through the gaping hole in the roof. Its wings beat free dust and debris from the rafters and it rained down on me. I ducked my head down and pulled my hood up.

Then I heard a groan.

It was faint, like the flight of the pigeon had roused someone from a deep sleep.

My eyes strained to the back of the warehouse. I saw no movement, and heard nothing more.

I crept forward, hyper aware of each sigh, each hush of the wind. I couldn’t tell which side of the building the groan had come from. I just knew it was ahead of me.

Moving slowly forward, watching for needles, I scanned the base of the wall, first to my left, then to my right. The warehouse must have been at least the length of a football field. Time seemed to have stopped.

Another groan.

This one throaty and louder. I heard a rustle coming from the other end. I peered back there and finally caught the movement.

What had looked like a pile of trash against the back wall started to shift. Garbage slid to the floor as the form hauled itself off its side and propped itself sitting against the wall.

I scanned the rest of the wall to make sure this was the only other person there. I dreaded having to look into more than one face to find the one I was looking for.

I kept walking forward and stopped about six feet from the man against the wall. His head was drooped forward, his chin resting on his chest. He clutched a bottle in his right hand, while his left rested limply on the floor next to him. His palm was up and the sleeve was rolled up. I could see the needle tracks on his forearm.

Then I spotted the birthmark.

Right at the crease inside the elbow.

The lump in my throat felt like it would choke me. My eyes burned with tears, and soon my vision was blurred.

Forgetting my sense of danger, I rushed forward with a stifled sob.

I fell to my knees in front of him, and took his face gently in my hands. Blinking back my tears, I stared searchingly into the face.

A scraggly beard hid almost everything below his nose, but my touch roused him enough that he looked up with bleary, unseeing eyes.

The eyes staring back at me were my own. But the color was his father’s.

Weeping openly now, I forgot the filth of the place. I sat down next to him and put my arm around his shoulders. I could feel how thin he was, how frail. His head fell onto my chest, the bottle slid out of his hand.

My tears fell onto his dishevelled hair. “I’m here, my love. I’ve come. I’m here.”

His limp hand tightened slightly on my arm. The sound that he made ripped my heart to pieces. He started to shake in my arms.

Finally, in the faintest of whispers, he said just one word.



The Brain In Jane works mainly in the rain. It's always raining somewhere. Find me on Twitter, Google+, and Pinterest.

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