It's been a long time since I posted... a belated Happy New Year to everyone. I think I just got lazy and didn't feel like writing much over the break. Besides, I had to write a Macbeth script.
Well, I finally decided to put up the short story I wrote back in October or so. It'll be in chunks. This is the first part.
Now that I read it again it seems a little weird and juvenile...but I've always dreamed of a place like this. Please comment! Thanks.
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“Don’t you ever forget this place,” he whispered into her auburn hair, knowing it was inevitable—since she was only human—once she went back up. He wished he could hold onto her forever, but he knew she had to search for her mother; it had haunted her for a long time, never knowing what had become of her. “Don’t forget me.”
“I won’t. I promise.” But they both knew she would be a different person once she left and then returned, if ever.
* * *
Elsa was running. She loved running in the morning, watching the trees stream by in a blur of green and brown. She breathed deeply, the fresh smell of spring filling her lungs. Sunlight streamed through the leaves and illuminated the dark chestnut wisps of hair that escaped from her ponytail. The only sounds were the crunch of gravel and the occasional chirps of birds. She felt at peace alone, with no one to be wary of, no one to make her watch herself.
It was rather strange that she liked being alone, now that she was older. She remembered vaguely a time when she had been so frightened of being on her own. Well, she had been young, and her nanny and her mother…well, she had missed them, she supposed. She had looked into her mother later on in life, but had been told that she had died, years ago. There had been no more clues to her whereabouts after one of her mother’s old friends, and Elsa had finally given up hope of reuniting with her mother.
Anyhow, Elsa’s memory went fuzzy when she thought of her childhood. The most vivid memory she could conjure up was one where she had felt so alone, so unwanted, and then something had happened. Something to do with a bright light and a book…
Books. Oh darn. She had left her overdue library book at her secretary’s desk. And it was a weekend. She slowed to a jog, shielding her green eyes from the sunshine. She really didn’t want to go pick it up, but then again, she was at the climax, and she had so wanted to finish it before returning it. She sighed dejectedly, climbing the stone steps to her apartment. She would have to go pick it up from her office.
She turned the key in the lock, waited to hear the telltale click, and shoved the door open. A gray tuft of fur disappeared behind the couch. Her cat liked to be alone too. Elsa hurriedly showered, put on a fresh blue blouse, and as an afterthought, sprayed a bit of perfume on her wrists. Might as well appear as she did to work every morning. She left her building, taking a bus downtown, and walking quickly to the highest building in the city. Dark glass mirrored back the glinting sun, and the reflections of the surrounding buildings stared unrelentingly at themselves, trying to see inside the taller one. On the top floor, she picked up her book. She glanced at the big double doors. There was no sound. She shrugged and went on her way, but could not stop thinking about that place.
She hated her job. All she did was file all day long, from the moment she set foot in the hushed, carpeted office, to the last time she heard that wall clock tick as she gently let the heavy oaken doors swing silently shut behind her. Her nameplate said she was secretary, but she never had to type anything or take any notes because Mr. Everitt never let her do it. He thought she would mess everything up. He was peculiar, her boss. He was always so perfect, like glass, and nothing ever seemed to bother him. His face was pale and smooth, like a mask. His cool demeanor kept people away. One look at those knowing hazel eyes, hidden slightly under his jet-black hair, and you would feel like he had seen your deepest secrets. Elsa shivered. He made her feel queer. She never knew what to say to him; she would get all flustered when he spoke in that deep, calm voice of his. Even more so because she felt she had heard it somewhere before.
She would make him coffee first thing every morning, since she was his secretary, and didn’t secretaries make coffee? Yes, so she had eagerly made her best cup of coffee, that first morning of her new job back in February. Piping-hot and aromatic, she had barely suppressed the urge to take a sip herself, but when she brought it into his office, he nodded briefly at her, not even taking his eyes off his work. She set the cup down and waited for him to take a sip and say something. She had stared at him curiously; had she seen him somewhere before? She finally decided that perhaps she had seen him at her interview, which had been but a brief encounter with the old secretary.
When it was clear he had forgotten about her, she cleared her throat, and said, “Good morning, Mr. Everitt.”
His pen stopped scritch-scratching on the thick, creamy paper in front of him. He looked up at her. His blank face didn’t change, but his eyes did. Finally, Elsa thought. She dared to crack a smile, but it went unnoticed in that cold, lonely room.
“Would you like tea instead, sir?” She realized he may not drink coffee.
“No, thank you. Coffee is fine. You may leave now, Miss Lanet,” he said.
“But I don’t know what to do yet!” she cried desperately. He gave her a funny smile, peering too long into her eyes, and waved her out.
“No need, no need. Just file the papers on your desk. There should be plenty to last you until noon. There is also a list of other things you must do.”
Actually, Elsa had not told the entire truth. The previous secretary, an old, bent woman, had shaken her head at Elsa when she had shown up that morning.
“So young,” she had croaked. Shake, shake, shake, went her gray head. “You shouldn’t be here. You should have been gone long ago. I don’t know why Jett won’t take you back t--” She had cut herself off with a bout of coughing at this point and not continued.
Elsa had been mystified, but had not had time to ask more on the subject because the old woman had suddenly started explaining the job.
Too quickly.
In a moment, she had disappeared down in the glass elevator, giving a last cackle and a whispered, “Don’t be too discouraged by him, dear. You just need to remember. Then you’ve got his weak spot!”
Remember what?
And weak spot? The man didn’t have a drop of emotion in him whatsoever. He was like a block of ice. Tall and handsome; in some ways, yes, he was. And intelligent, she supposed; after all, he was the president of a huge company. A company that made books, of all things. She loved books. Nothing was better than curling up for hours after a run, the weight of a good, thick book in her hands. It was her oasis, her sanctuary, her secret garden. When she had been all alone in that big old house, waiting and waiting, her only consolation had been her books.
And that man, that unfeeling statue, made them! How could he be the creator of such treasures? Why would he care? All he ever did in his office was…well, Elsa didn’t really know what he did in there all day. She wasn’t to go in during the hours of nine and two. Every morning now, she just found a stack of files and a note listing her tasks for the day. She had taken to making her lunch breaks longer and longer, but no one reprimanded her; no one cared. At times, not a soul seemed to know she was in there, except for the occasional phone call or visitor; from where or for what, she didn’t know.
There was never any sound from the room within; she guessed the dark wooden doors were soundproof. Sometimes she would spend long minutes staring at those doors, pondering the possibilities of what would happen if she went in during the forbidden hours. Would he be doing his work, like the quiet, solitary man he seemed to be, or doing something else? She had seen no bookshelves in there, peculiarly. So perhaps he did not read. How bizarre for a man who ran a book company!
She wondered if he had any hobbies. Baking? Painting? Watching old movies?
No, those were only things she would do. Things she wished she could be doing instead of working in this dreary office.
So, she stayed there, day after day, watching the sun arc through the sky, rain fall, snow drift, and listened to the tick-tick of the wall clock.
* * *
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