Haunted Roads

The basement file archive was illuminated by stark flourescent lights, and there were no windows. It would be impossible for anyone to realize that it was nearly four in the morning. Row upon row of metal shelves sagging with the weight of patient files filled the entire long room, and the only sound to be heard was the faint hum of the central heat. In the far back corner of the room was an old-fashioned wooden desk with a swivel chair which was typically used by the file/supply clerk on shift. The surface of the desk was piled with tabbed folders, some thin and some thicker, bursting with tabs and post-it notes and different colors of ink. The pile was smaller than it had been earlier, when Chris had started the portion of his work shift that he devoted to the filing.

It was simple, repetitive work, and as he put files in alphabetical order in preparation for taking them to the appropriate shelves, his mind was elsewhere. He'd been living in Seattle for six months now, and he still did not quite feel as if he fit. That was nothing new to him, since often, he hadn't been able to find his niche when he'd been back home, either. Maybe there wasn't one for him, and damned if that wasn't a depressing thought. He liked his new apartment, liked the building, liked the neighborhood. Maybe it was just that he wasn't used to being entirely on his own. He kept grasping for reasons, for excuses, because he wanted desperately to belong somewhere. There was no hope for it, he thought, but to keep trying.

Suddenly, Chris' quiet reverie was interrupted by the slap-slap of footsteps outside in the corridor. He froze in place, having a pretty good idea what that probably meant. Dammit. Was it too much to hope for one entire shift of peace and solitude? Most of his co-workers weren't that bad; at least they had some sense of propriety, some conception of personal space. But the specter who haunted Chris' nights was a brash, loud and ceaselessly annoying male CNT who had a hate-on for him for some reason. Many people found Chris to be standoffish and aloof, and apparently his reticence had caused Vernon Johnson to hate him on sight. He'd also somehow realized how much Chris disliked being touched, and he always tried to rile him up by invading his space or clapping him on the shoulder, always with that maddening smirk on his dark-featured face.

( in the still of the night )