Status: Slow Updates
Green Grass
Elizabeth
After that day in the woods, we began to see less and less of each other. I don't think Tommy liked me much, but that's alright I guess. Rachelle though, she seemed to take the separation pretty harshly, despite how strange he'd act sometimes. I think she liked that though, because she was a little bit odd as well, although she didn't make it as obvious.
I met Rachelle when we went to the city's institution-school together, living in the same dormitory. We never really got on the same way the others in our complex did, but it was a comfortable friendship and we fed off each others' thoughts and feelings. She always had a light way: enthusiastic and innocent. I guess that's what I liked about her, that she didn't seem as desensitized as I felt. It's been a while now since I've heard from her though-- nearly three weeks-- and I understand she found work as a late-night waitress someplace. It's not the best, but it is something, and it's better than Tommy's.
He's working at the institution-school with a janitorial position; he's cleaning one of the dormitory complexes. I never thought I'd see the day when Rachelle's abnormally thin, oddball friend would have a mundane job like that one. That's what he always was to me: Rachelle's weird friend, that guy who made drawings in the sand instead of playing games, who would stare at the sky and trees and talk about birds when we were younger. And now he's a janitor. Wonders never cease.
As for me, I answer calls for a cargo train service, X-Track, that ships supplies to different cities and regions. I never expected excitement though, so I don't mind the job at all. It's average, and I can't really ask for more.
Replacing the telephone receiver for the last time of the evening, I pack up my folders of paperwork, straightening out my blouse and pants as I stand up. Papers and ledger books are stacked neatly in line before being placed into a slim, black briefcase. I do up the clasps and leave, locking the office door behind me.
As I step from the revolving doors into the well-lit night, I'm fronted with the cold and I pull my jacket tighter around me. My hurried footsteps echo dully off towering buildings, and I see others stepping from their own workplaces to join me on the sidewalk amongst the chewing gum and the tattered flyers. It occurs to me that, although it is night, it never looks like night-time out here, under the bright streetlamps.
Quickly, I make it back to my small flat and unbolt the door, making my way inside, where I pull down the heavy blinds against the outside lights. Flicking the switch on a dim table lamp, I sit down for a microwave dinner, to the sounds of the radio. Idly, I turn the tuning knob, searching for some news or light music. I hear a snatch of a familiar voice, briefly, and attempt to find it once more.
Eventually, after much tweaking and adjustment, I manage to clarify the voices through the static. The recognizable one isn't speaking anymore, but it is evidently some sort of information and news station. The first voice returns and, taking a meagre forkful of frozen-dinner pasta, I take a moment to place it. It's Tommy. I pause, thrown off by the familiarity.
"The unreported disappearances are increasing daily, but they are so covered up that citizens are still unaware that this may be happening right on their very streets. We need to educate the masses, inform them, and keep them updated on the issues and dangers of their seemingly-structured lives."
I push my chair out and get up, pulling back the blinds minutely, with a slight tug. Peering around the street below, I see nothing but the hazy glow of row upon row of glaring streetlights. Danger? What danger? I take one more sweeping glance around at the towering buildings and the deserted, grid-like streets, and shrug off the ominous feeling. They're completely empty, especially at this time of night.
"You're absolutely right; before we can even begin to dig to the source, we must acknowledge the clear warning signs, and we must become sensitized to our surroundings," advised the strangers' tinny voice, rattling through the radio.
I draw the blinds once more, turn away from the window, and ready myself for sleep.
I met Rachelle when we went to the city's institution-school together, living in the same dormitory. We never really got on the same way the others in our complex did, but it was a comfortable friendship and we fed off each others' thoughts and feelings. She always had a light way: enthusiastic and innocent. I guess that's what I liked about her, that she didn't seem as desensitized as I felt. It's been a while now since I've heard from her though-- nearly three weeks-- and I understand she found work as a late-night waitress someplace. It's not the best, but it is something, and it's better than Tommy's.
He's working at the institution-school with a janitorial position; he's cleaning one of the dormitory complexes. I never thought I'd see the day when Rachelle's abnormally thin, oddball friend would have a mundane job like that one. That's what he always was to me: Rachelle's weird friend, that guy who made drawings in the sand instead of playing games, who would stare at the sky and trees and talk about birds when we were younger. And now he's a janitor. Wonders never cease.
As for me, I answer calls for a cargo train service, X-Track, that ships supplies to different cities and regions. I never expected excitement though, so I don't mind the job at all. It's average, and I can't really ask for more.
Replacing the telephone receiver for the last time of the evening, I pack up my folders of paperwork, straightening out my blouse and pants as I stand up. Papers and ledger books are stacked neatly in line before being placed into a slim, black briefcase. I do up the clasps and leave, locking the office door behind me.
As I step from the revolving doors into the well-lit night, I'm fronted with the cold and I pull my jacket tighter around me. My hurried footsteps echo dully off towering buildings, and I see others stepping from their own workplaces to join me on the sidewalk amongst the chewing gum and the tattered flyers. It occurs to me that, although it is night, it never looks like night-time out here, under the bright streetlamps.
Quickly, I make it back to my small flat and unbolt the door, making my way inside, where I pull down the heavy blinds against the outside lights. Flicking the switch on a dim table lamp, I sit down for a microwave dinner, to the sounds of the radio. Idly, I turn the tuning knob, searching for some news or light music. I hear a snatch of a familiar voice, briefly, and attempt to find it once more.
Eventually, after much tweaking and adjustment, I manage to clarify the voices through the static. The recognizable one isn't speaking anymore, but it is evidently some sort of information and news station. The first voice returns and, taking a meagre forkful of frozen-dinner pasta, I take a moment to place it. It's Tommy. I pause, thrown off by the familiarity.
"The unreported disappearances are increasing daily, but they are so covered up that citizens are still unaware that this may be happening right on their very streets. We need to educate the masses, inform them, and keep them updated on the issues and dangers of their seemingly-structured lives."
I push my chair out and get up, pulling back the blinds minutely, with a slight tug. Peering around the street below, I see nothing but the hazy glow of row upon row of glaring streetlights. Danger? What danger? I take one more sweeping glance around at the towering buildings and the deserted, grid-like streets, and shrug off the ominous feeling. They're completely empty, especially at this time of night.
"You're absolutely right; before we can even begin to dig to the source, we must acknowledge the clear warning signs, and we must become sensitized to our surroundings," advised the strangers' tinny voice, rattling through the radio.
I draw the blinds once more, turn away from the window, and ready myself for sleep.