Red Snow Sample - Fiction - Crime
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
British (General) British (Received Pronunciation - RP, BBC)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
I wake up shivering blood in my mouth. I'm thirsty In a dark, dark room, alone on the floor on some kind of Matt. I rubbed my eyes and feel about a clover in tune in my head. It's not mine. I put it off dizzy like I could fall. But I'm already on the floor. The room smells damp. My listen, nothing. Complete silence. I checked my aides and they're both in my ears. Saw the hard skin a top rubbed rule. Wherever I am, I have to get out. And then I remember CC scream. Is she here? Is Karen here? I tried to stand, but it's too difficult. My legs are like ribbons falling from a birthday balloon. I hold my palms to my cheeks to warm them. I have never been this cold in my life. There is a noise by my feet, a rustling. I retract my knees under my chin and taste salt in the air. Salt like this spread on the roads in the pavements. My right hearing aid beeps its final battery warning, and I checked my pocket for Mikey Foreman Spare batteries. I'm wearing my ski coat and it zipped right up under my chin higher than I like to have it on. My keys are missing. I kneel in the room, spins. I can't see anything except a faint light bulb hanging from the ceiling, some low. What ********! That doesn't do its job. My feet are hot. My breast pocket feels warm through the material. I reach down and pull off a boot. There's a hot disc in there, one of those heating pads. You sticking your gloves When you go skiing, I pull the boot back on and reach out. Nothing. No furniture, no TV, no door. My home. Christs attic, Some basement. I never knew about the memory of that hand in my face. The palm pressed into my nose, comes back in my head, clears. I stand up in this way, the room feels wrong and the air feels wrong. Unfamiliar. A cobweb sticks to my cheek and I put it off. But it keeps on coming, some never ending spider thread and I pull and throw it away. But it just comes back to me. I crouched down. What happened? I checked my pockets again on my left hand's cut, my ankle hurts and my head hurts and my shoulder's hurt. I feel like I've slipped on the ice and fallen on my backside and has a wound on my forehead. Hard crusted blood, a bump. I've lost most of my things and gained plenty of somebody else's things. But at least this is my jacket. In my right pocket is a pen on a folded piece of paper, and in my left pocket is another pen. My hands are a mattress. I have to think. Now I have to get out of here and I have to help Sisi. It's inflatable, quite flat. The kind of mattress you have under a sleeping bag. My God, I wish I had a sleeping bag. Right now. I'm so, so cold. I reach around, the room's carpeted. I can feel the tight, hard we've underneath the mattress. I look my jaw. My teeth grind together, scraping a shuffle along on my knees to the end of the mattress and reach out for a wall. But there's nothing. I brush my hands across the floor and touch something and recoiled like a boxer evading a punch. It feels like leaves or wet pieces of newspaper, maybe tissue paper and I can feel matchsticks Or are they just sticks? Toothpicks? Needles? I won't put my hands there, but I smell in that direction. It's musty. I pulled back and push my hands out in front of me like a zombie finding prey. There must be a door or a wall. I get to the other end of the carpet and it's uneven underneath some papers. Stuff down there, maybe cardboard. Is this a shed? Hot A carriage. I find about a clever with my hands and put it back on. It smells of a person, and that person is not me. But I need its warmth. I reached out my arms to the sides and there's a box and it is soft on my fingers. It's leather, I think I opened the lid and their papers inside. I can't really see the box, but I can feel it like a lever container for printer paper. On beside the books in books are there not books that cardboard there. Chocolate bars, the broad, flat ones foil wraps like cooking chocolate? Is this a basement kitchen? I stand up and step off the mattress onto the lumpy carpet. It's uneven. I don't like it. I reach out on one of my hearing. AIDS dies, but the other one's still working. No walls, no real floor, no heating. That's for damn sure. I get to the end of the carpet. I can feel its tasselled room at my toes, a blanket. I feel like if I step off, I'll full of mile into darkness. I move one boot slowly. The floor is like an autumn park, a thick layer of leaves and something else. I reach out and my hands touch a wall, and that's brilliant news. It's cold. Feels like an outside wall. It's brick. I reach along it to find the door. The bricks are rough. The mortar joining them together is missing in places and lumpy and others nothing like the wet slime, all of the grand room in the factory. I move along the wall. It's curved. I move along some more and look up and feel the bricks at my hands, and the light bulb on the ceiling brightens a little, and it dawns on me that I'm locked inside the base of a grim berg chimney.