Sunshine An Original Fiction by Coutuva
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God, I hate this place.
It is old, it is gray, and it is damp. It smells of
perspiration, leather, painted concrete and old iron, and the
slightest sound echoes through it forever. Sometimes, it seems,
you can hear a thought in its deafening silence. Other times, it
comes alive with shouts, the sounds of struggle, and the heavy
clangs that signal the end of the distracting conflict.
Unfortunately, a few disregarded protests later, the silence
inevitably returns, allowing me to think. Those are the times I hate
most. When I think too much about this place -- and when I think too
much about why I am here, I feel weak. I feel vulnerable. I feel...
Exposed. I am out of my element.
My high-classed friends would never understand; my esteemed
colleagues at the Firm would definitely not understand -- nor would
they forgive. My presence here could easily be my undoing -- but
I can't care any longer. It is far too late for that.
Had it not been for that one mistake; that one moment of
stupidity that first brought me here -- things would be so much
different now. But, as I have finally discovered, there are those
things that are entirely in the hands of fate.
I slowly step up to the heavy bars that separate me from
what lies beyond, and peer past the chipped paint; past the patches
of rust; past what they remind me of, and simply stare at the desk.
The cheap steel desk with the single, dimestore lamp and hopelessly
disarrayed papers atop it, and the worn, squeaky office chair
positioned haphazardly beneath it.
A testament, perhaps, to the pervasive sense of despair
this place seems to breed.
I raise my arms, and rest my elbows and forearms on the
ledged, horizontal bar that quarters the iron wall, dangling my
hands through.
Just like I always do.
Time passes -- entirely too much time. I withdraw my arms,
and move slowly to the lone, iron-striped window penetrating the
stark wall behind me. I run my fingers idly over the rough surface
of the concrete sill, seeking the single ray of brilliant sunlight
that always fights its way through the heavy, dirty glass. I move
my face into the warm light and close my eyes, the heat of the
sun on my skin chasing away the cloying, confining, stifling
darkness that surrounds me. It feels wonderful. It lets me forget
my tribulations.
It seems that only a moment passes before I hear a familiar
sound. The sound of heavy leather boots approaching. I recognize
the pattern of the footfalls, and my heart skips.
Turning, I step toward the iron wall once more, again
resting my arms upon it. The footfalls continue to approach,
followed by the appearance of the guard. She strides up to the
desk purposefully, snatching her radio from her belt.
She kicks the chair away from the desk with a practiced
flip of her boot, and moves to sit. But I shift my weight -- and
she freezes. Her blonde-maned head turns, and she sees me. Her
eyes flash. I shudder.
She rises again and starts toward me, the confident smirk of
those who wear the badge distorting her face. Stopping just
near the iron barrier that separates us, she raises her radio and
gruffly squeezes the button on its side.
"Badge 152 -- Open 12," she barks into the device, her
mouth curling at the corner as the door buzzes, clacks, then
begins to move aside. I gasp quietly and step back out of reflex.
Her powerful eyes burn into mine as she holsters the radio,
then steps past the retreating door. Her face comes toward me
quickly -- and then, conveniently out of range of the cameras, it
happens.
"You came to pick me up! Mmmm..." she exults, and buries
her face in my shoulder as her strong arms encircle me.
"I had to, Lynn -- I couldn't wait until tonight," I
smile lovingly, as my own arms close over her wonderful form. "I
missed you," I add with an appreciative sigh, as her body melts
against mine.
"I missed you too, Alicia," she breathes in response,
and raises her lush lips to mine. We kiss. It feels better than
wonderful. Our lips part, and I smile as I hold her.
"Come on, Sunshine -- let's get out of here," I whisper,
with a gesture toward the exit.
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END - Sunshine An Original Fiction by Coutuva
© 1999 Coutuva
Comments Welcomed - Flames Extinguished!
coutuva@gmail.com
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