Short and sweet I hope :o)
Fear
Fuck!
I slammed the door closed, anger radiating through every pore. I wanted to beat the shit out of her, and right this minute were there not a door in between us I would have, wouldn't I? Of course I would...wouldn't...fuck!
Running my hand through my hair and pulling it hard to repress a scream, I impatiently jabbed at the call button for the elevator. Honestly, this was the slowest lift in the world. I stamped my feet as if jogging on the spot, wringing my hands and covering my face, dragging them down hard, like I was trying to wipe something away.
A quiet ping alerted me to the fact the lift was waiting, and hurriedly I stepped in, pressing the button for the ground floor. Anger bubbled inside me like a witches brew, and I wouldn't have been at all surprised if lurid green steam was hissing from my nose and ears. How could she do this to us...to me? This has really fucked things up. A jolt disturbed my thoughts for a moment, and another quiet ping followed by a muffled whoosh told me we were at ground level, and I bolted out the door, my feet thumping the floor beneath me, my breath coming in heavy rasping gasps, like I was mega unfit asshole trying for the marathon.
The evening air was wet and cold, the earlier passing storm now just a residual threat as I numbly pounded the sidewalk. Flynn...Flynn...Flynn...my feet keeping perfect pace with the mantra in my head. Traffic tooted beside me, the tail end of rush hour in full swing; but then every hour was rush hour here. Flynn...Flynn...Flynn...I kept my rhythm, turning corners and crossing roads, only slowing if I had to. Flynn...Flynn...Flynn...Ana...pregnant...baby..."NO!" I yell, much to the surprise of the passing elderly couple. I think I hear them muttering something about lunatics, but I don't care, I'm focussed on my goal. My throat is stinging and dry, and I know it's because I'm not concentrating on my breathing. Claude is always telling me off for not keeping it in check when exercising. From the diaphragm Grey!
I slow to a jog as I near John Flynn's place - a modest detached property on the outer rim of the Olympic National Park – and swung round the concrete pillars that act as a boundary between the walled front garden, the long sweeping drive, and the sidewalk.
I knock on the door. Nothing. No-one's home. I hammer the door with my fists but still no-one comes. I sidestep to my right and peer through the windows, but all is dark, no lights, and no movement. I turn around and crouch down on my haunches, my back to the wall, trying to alleviate my growing panic. I manage to slow my breathing and clear my head enough to think. What would Flynn say...he'd ask why I ran, what I'm so scared of...and I'd say...I'd say...what would I say?
I don't know how long I stayed there but my thighs were getting stiff, and slowly I rose to walk down the path, back onto the streets.
I'd never noticed before how lovely this park was. Quiet and calming, like a soothing balm. Many trees lined the walkway, their branches gently swaying in the breeze, leaves rustling, the rain making their many shades of green sparkle in the fading light. Ana would like it here. Pulling my jacket tighter round me and shoving my hands in my pockets, I walked. To where, I had no clue.