Disclaimer: I do not own Inception. Reviews are not only accepted and encouraged, but really positive ego buffers.
The engine of the car stuttered to an abrupt stop and Arthur extracted his fingers away from the ignition, without retrieving the keys. He stared blankly through the window shield, at the perfect surburbian street laid out in front of him. As he continued to gaze, in a thoughtless stare, he saw a figure. A short, petite girl with dark brown hair. She wore a small light blue dress and her hair was tied in a ribbon.
"Nat," he whispered, breathless.
He immediately opened the door and practically fell out of the car in the process. As he crawled speedily to the figure, he raised his eyes and his heart skipped a beat. There was no one there.
He blinked.
Very slowly, and weakly, he fixed himself into a sitting position on the sidewalk. He held his head in his hands and squeezed his eyes shut, a feeble attempt at trying to rid the pain growing in his heart. It was a combination of heart burn and the sensation of having someone beat in his ribs with a cleaver. His breathing slowed and he recomposed himself, running his hands through his tangled hair. It hadn't been cut in God knew how long.
He stood to his feet and carefully adjusted the wrinkled hoodie he'd thrown on. He walked up the pavement, turning to his right to the bright yellow house - a tacky addition to the neighborhood - and began walking up the drive. He did his best not to turn his head toward the space next to the yellow house. The black, ash remains.
He cleared his throat, rubbed his hair back, and knocked on the front door three times in a gentle rhythm.
After some agonizing seconds, the front door opened and Arthur was met with a confused expression that quicly contorted into sympathy.
The person quickly waved Arthur in with no hesitance, gently shutting the door behind them.
A steaming cup of tea was sat down on the dining table directly in front of him.
Arthur's old neighbor, Ron Stampler, was a good-hearted man with a growing family of his own. His eldest daughter was twenty-six and engaged to Princeton graduate and his youngest son was expected in a couple of months. Of course, Arthur wouldn't be around to see that, let alone congratulate them. Ron's wife was a writer and often worked at home, hence the family bond being as strong as it was. Her name was Irene.
Ron and Irene.
The lovely, homely couple next door.
"I honestly don't know what to say to you," Ron broke the silence in a low voice. It was late; everyone else was asleep. "I feel like asking how you are, but I know the answer to that. All I can say is that I'm sorry. I am truly sorry, Arthur."
Arthur, after prolonged minutes of sitting with a stern expression, leaned forward and drank the burning tea which settled his naseua because of the liquor. He set it down carefully and leaned back again.
"I would accept your apology, Ron, but you didn't do this," Arthur spoke carefully. "If you did, you'd be dead already."
Arthur formed a pistol with his hand and flicked it upward, in a shooting motion, directed at Ron's head.
"I'm here," Arthur started, "because I really want to know what you saw. What you think happened. Because...I just need it."
"For some reason, I sensed you weren't over for a friendly chat."
"A chat between neighbors. Neighbors who are stark opposites. One with a house and a big family, and one who has nothing. Would you like to guess which one I am?"
Ron looked down into his mug. "I saw shadows."
"Silhoettes?"
"Four of them."
Arthur's breathing became unsteady. "Four?" His voice cracked. "Men?"
"I believe so," Ron hummed. "But I heard a voice. Thick French accent, voice light as a feather. A woman."
Arthur's eyebrows rose.
Ariadne leaned forward and whispered against his thraot, "Don't go to Paris."
She backed away and looked up at him with pleading eyes.
"Please."
"I can figure this out," Alan said quietly, yet firmly whilst leaning over the crime scene photos. "You just have to give more time and shut the hell up."
The woman standing over him grumbled. "Well, how long will it take? Would you like a day off? Maybe cash in the retirement revenue that you do not possess."
"Would you fuck off please?" Alan says this very politely and quickly, ending with the most innocent smile.
"It's your head," the woman walks away, leaving the laboratory.
Alan scoffed, shaking his head.
He pushed the photographs away and rested his head on the table. He just wanted to be alone.
And at this perfect moment, his mind lulling and his eyes fluttering closed, he heard the vibrations of his phone against the counter top loudly.