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Yellow slashes, memory in opaque
Turning the corner, yellow slashes zig-zagged like lightning, sealing the door.
For a moment, everything wavered, and Chris felt the swoon coming over him, the cube's deep oscillation in his pocket; blood rushing from his head. He leant to his left, shoulder connecting with the plain wall, tipped his head until the cool of the wallpaper spread to him.
Closed his eyes.
Breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
The darkness was complete and he stayed there for a few moments, swimming in all the questions he wanted to ask of a world that didn't care to answer.
Breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
Until it was time to surface - to those yellow slashes barring entry to Angela's apartment.
Swallowing against the lump that wanted to form in his throat, Chris walked to the door.
POLICE LINE - DO NOT CROSS, repeated over and over all up and down the barrier.
Chris knew that when he reached through the tape to try the door it would be unlocked. He held no doubt.
His hand found the doorknob and, with one look up and down the hallway, he turned it. For a moment he thought he was wrong, that his journey this day was at an end, but then the latch clicked open; sound deafening in the silence of the corridor. He looked both ways again, but this floor of The Dominion was as empty as it ever had been.
Chris pushed the door inward. It made a 'shooshing' noise as it brushed over carpet. Beyond, the entrance hall of the apartment was silent, dark and empty. He looked quickly at the police tape and pulled off the piece closest to the ground, opening a space through which he could crawl.
He knelt and shuffled through the gap.
The spasm hit him like an electric shock, every muscle in his body contracting at once, dropping him to the carpet, helpless as a baby. In the midst of the clench, he saw Angela's shape sliding down his office window, her blood smearing her trail, he saw again the figures in black, one of them carrying a knife, he saw the look in Angelo's eyes earlier that morning.
He felt something in his hand and, despite the spasms, he lifted it before his eyes. The knife. In his hand. He saw his hand thrusting, cutting, slicing, stabbing. And blood. Ever the blood. He thrust his hand away, tried to throw the knife.
And the spasms disappeared, leaving only void.
Chris felt the familiar shape of the cube in his hand, it's energy easing down to something near its calm oscillation. He lifted himself to his knees and continued through the doorway, moving on autopilot, resigned to the fact that that he really had no choice but to go on.
Through the doorway.
Into Angela's apartment.
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This Pod rates: 5 |
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