I don't own them.
"I told you to be patient
I told you to be fine
I told you to be balanced
I told you to be kind
Now all your love is wasted?
Then who the hell was I?"
The emptiness was bleak and unexpected, no signature smile in a mirror, no telling musky smell. The woman tried the door, fear erupting within the depths of her as it gave away with only a turn of the handle. The motel room had been left empty, glimmers of light, but from a desk lamp. The only difference was a CD player, whirring as it played a recently burnt disk (entitled 'Peter from Boston'). Faintly, sounds of alternative music were just filling the air; the only telling sign that the room had been abandoned. The wardrobe, had it been examined, would have revealed a black holdall, home to some cash, a few limp items of clothing, and a crumpled photograph showing two female federal agents, a scientist, and a smiling man with his arms around the group. The heavy air hung bleakly over the bed where the CD player lay, patterned duvet only slightly creased, not slept in. The dustbin held several pieces of screwed up paper, with various drafts of letters beginning 'Dear Olivia', and one piece asking 'who am i?', in capital letters. The top draft seemed more final, noting betrayal and hurt, but with undertones of desire, yet this too was deemed unreadable by its author. Or so the intention had been.
It was noticed, slipping gradually away from its inevitable end as it dropped to the ground softly. The woman picked it up and broke into sobs as she regarded the message. She had to sit on the bed to steady herself as she ran a hand over her face and up through her tied hair, letting the letter fall back to rest on the ground. Slowly she calmed, wiping tears away from under her eyes, where dark circles were visible and destroying a naturally pale complexion. She let out a whisper, sighed a man's name and stood back up, straightening her suit as she pulled a cell phone from her pocket. The dial tones ended and a raspy voice answered anxiously with a greeting. She proceeded to let the voice down gently, terror noticeably in her tone.
"He's not here, Walter" the woman admitted. The reply was silence; desperate, distraught. The background noise revealed scrabbling; a shout for attention. A sweeter and less pained female who accompanied Walter had found something important. A sweeping sound through the phone declared that Walter was no longer the one being addressed. "What is it?"
"Olivia, I think you might want to see this..." the sweet girl sounded worried now.
"I'll be right there"
Hope you like it, I might do another one or two but that would be it. (: