Unpromised Home

the snow rips your heart out

You call your dream nothing but a joke, but who are you without your dream? Does that just make you the joke? The girl who gave up on her dream after being forced to reckon with situations that spiralled way out of her control?

Deeply, you breathe. Your eyes were shut loosely. Your hands fall lax at your side. You breathe.

Opening your eyes you stare out at the falling snow. It had slowed since you last paid attention to the outside. The flakes became small. Insignificant in the moment, barely adding to the pile of snow on the ground. Maybe that's all your contribution will ever be. Insignificant and small, but you'd be damned if you didn't try to even achieve that.

With a sudden resoluteness, you glance at the door of America's office. There has to be basic first aid in this building right? If not you could at least find something to wipe the blood off your face and hand.

Quietly you push the door open. The hallway was the same as earlier. Dying plant in the corner, and devoid of people. It's probably for the better that the only one in earshot of you was the plant. Dead men tell no tales. Or something like that.

You make your way down the hallway with caution in each of your steps. If America (or anyone really) spotted you, you would be dead where you stood. Maybe not by their actions, but rather your sudden urge to jump out the nearest window to avoid that conversation.

Before rounding the corner that you had approached, you poke your head around it. It was empty, slightly soothing your growing fear. Glancing over your shoulder your quickly make your way down the new hall.

This pattern continues for a while. You looped around through hallway after hallway, slowly getting more and more frustrated. Too many times you had to jump into a room, hiding away from passing workers, losing yourself more and more time that you really didn't have. Sooner or later, America was going to get back from wherever he was and notice that you were gone. You really hope you'll be able to avoid that.

Sighing, you sneak out of the last room you had hid in. You could still hear the two men who had passed by from around the corner. Your stomach stirs as a sickness builds within it, causing you great discomfort as the towering feeling reaches the base of your throat.

Picking up your pace you make your way around to the next hall. You glance down it, a familiar disappointment crossing your face until you notice a sign at the end. Immediately you sprint towards the door the sign hung above, shutting yourself into the room promptly. A bathroom. Finally.

With quiet relief, you finally allow a moment of relaxation. The room was cramped. A toilet was crammed against the far wall. The sink was next to it, surrounded by a plain white countertop. It appeared to be made of wood, at least partially, as sections of paint revealed to you. A bottle of hand soap sat against the mirror, which hung on the wall, reflecting an image of the door, and of you.

To say you looked like a mess was an understatement. Aside from the scabs and the dried blood that had caked over them, the bags under your eyes were huge and dark and were further pronounced by the red of your bloodshot eyes. The collar of your jacket was now stained with dried blood, further adding to your unkempt appearance.

You pull your stained jacket off, tossing it onto the closed toilet seat. You touch your neck softly, causing the blood that had dried to it to flake off, landing on the white counter. Brushing the dried blood onto the floor, you glance around looking for something to clean your face. Luckily, on the wall was a paper towel holder.

Pulling a few sheets from the roll you turn the sink on. Once the water ran warm, you stick the sheets under the flow. Turning the water off, you wring the excess water out and raise the towel to your face.