Here's something new that I thought I'd share. I found it in my bits and pieces folder on my USB stick, along with a bunch of other HR-based snippets of ideas, and couldn't really remember writing it (hey, that happens). I thought it was interesting, so I figured I'd edit and post it. This could be turned into a longer story, if I had the energy. lol I'll try to do more regular updates. Any requests, or prompts to keep me going? Let me know. Hope you all enjoy. :) - Laura

Routine

The Lament Configuration sat untouched on the dresser, its golden lacquered surface still glossy despite the fine layer of dust that had gathered around - but not on, never on - it, as Kirsty kept a watchful gaze over it.

Following Trevor's demise, and initially feeling compelled to keep it - and the Cenobite - close to her, Kirsty had tried hiding the box away at first, deep in the closet under clothes not hers, but the compelling need to make sure it hadn't disappeared forced her to pull it out, put her hands on it to make sure it was still there. Not in someone else's hands, and not in any other shape than a closed box.

Everyday she would wake up and look at it, just to reassure herself that it was still there, and that no doors had been opened while she slept.

It was a comfort that allowed her to continue through her day normally in a well established routine; get up, eat, shower, dress, go to work, avoid the still buzzing reporters, ignore the whispers and looks, go home, smile at the officer who kept the media vultures away, eat, clean, and go to sleep.

It's a routine, well established by the second month and comforting in its repetitiveness. It kept her occupied enough to not think much as time slipped through her fingers.

Every night she would sit on the bed and look at the box.

Looked and thought.

She thought about passion, pain, coincidence, and deals...all of it spinning together in her mind in ways most would call her insane for.

But Kirsty knew what the face of insanity looked like, and what looked back at her from the black depths of the box was the harsh features of truth.

As the months passed she would stay up longer each night, her thoughts growing more twisted and dark with each passing day.

Each night spent staring while one hand rubbed the growing bulge of her stomach.

To her credit, she never made the unforgivable mistake of hoping...