Coldness, Expectation

I am watching the clock. Eyes on the prize, on the time. Certainly not the time of our lives.

Eva sits across, and Marcus to my left. Eva has dark eyes that flash anger. Marcus talks incessantly about broccoli. He’s crazy I guess.

I’m bored but with a gun to the back of my head, all I can continue to do is type, type, type and or Type O will come splashing from the back of my skull.

This is how I have to motivate. Easier like this, I guess.

Dehydration kicks in, not a moment too soon. Helps me to focus. I don’t like the inside of my mouth feeling wet.

Finally, Marcus stops typing, and collapses. Glad of that. I never liked his voice.

Just Eva and I are left, typing, typing, typing.

Type O forming puddles on the floor as others stop and fall.

Eva swears at me.

I smile to myself. The clock is ticking on, and some time soon we will be let loose, to live, maybe, but not to type. The blisters on my fingers ooze and bleed.

When the bell went, I left, the gun eased from my skull to someone’s holster. Eva stayed, as always, typing well beyond the necessary time. Eva is a little crazy too, maybe.

As I leave, she spits at me, tells the guard to shoot me anyway, just because my hair is long or short or something. I want to turn and swear but I’m a better man than that. I wish the guard would shoot Eva too, but I’m not saying anything.

Better stay hungover tomorrow. Sober doesn’t focus well.

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About dcduell

Failed musician. Trying to write for TV. Never sure quite where I'm headed. Serial un-funnyman. I used to do a lot of writing. Sometimes I still do. So I decided to put it on the internet. I'm on Facebook and Twitter. Pretty active on the former, not so much on the latter. Holler at me.
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