we all long for what could have been (sensing) wrote in haunted_roads, @ 2008-02-11 16:00:00 |
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Current mood: | uncomfortable |
Entry tags: | chris |
Week One: Thursday - Narrative
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.
Now, Chris set down the file he was holding and glanced around with anxious blue eyes, trying to decide what to do. The problem was, there was nowhere for him to go; the only exit to the file archive was the one that opened out into the hallway. There were no closets within its confines, nor was there a bathroom. He held his breath as the door burst open. "Chris Morgan!" Vernon bellowed. "Where you at, baby?" There was a pause, and Chris hoped that maybe Vernon had given up and gone back out into the hall to find someone else to torment. No such luck. A toneless humming began, along with the sound of fingers skimming over the spines of files on the shelf as the man walked closer. "Yooooo-hoo," he singsonged. "Fee, fi, fo, fum, I smell the blood of a Cajun bum."
There was only one option that Chris was able to consider, since it sounded as if Vernon was in one of those moods where he'd never let him alone. Moving as quietly as possible, he tucked his tall, lanky frame beneath the kneehole of the huge wooden desk. There wasn't any room to spare, but he had enough space to fit without anything sticking out. As Vernon's Croc-shod feet moved ever closer, he slid the swivel chair in front of himself, praying that it wouldn't squeak. This wasn't the best plan ever, since he was well-aware that he'd never live this down if Vernon-- or anyone, for that matter-- found him hiding under this desk like a child.
His cheeks burned red, and he felt overly warm as he waited to see if he would be discovered. Was it a crime to want to be left alone to do his job without this kind of annoyance? He didn't think it was, but he knew that Vernon would beg to differ. He also knew that there was no point in complaining about the other man, because the dark-skinned CNT would feign innocence and say that he was just trying to be friendly and that he had no idea why Chris didn't like him. Right. He wrapped himself even more tightly as Vernon passed by, slapping the back of the swivel chair as he did, setting it to creaking for nearly a minute as it vibrated on rusty springs. "Shit, where'd he go?" Vernon mused to himself as he padded up the far row of files, the sound of his footsteps getting quieter and quieter.
Chris closed his eyes, his insides roiling with an unpleasant combination of helpless anger, self-disgust and relief as Vernon left the file archive and resumed his noisy walk down the hall, whistling as he went. Finally he pushed back the chair and climbed out of the kneehole, huffing out a nearly soundless sigh as he glanced at his watch. Two more hours until his shift was over. He decided that he'd finish the filing as quickly as he could and then recheck the supply closets again. Maybe with some luck and moving around, he could avoid the CNT from Hell for one more day. Worth a try, anyway.