She flung the book aside and watched with wide, horror-filled eyes, as the book somersaulted across the coffee table and landed with distinct thud on the pinkish marble floor. She stared at it full five seconds before she turned around, grabbed her coat and slammed the door as she stormed out of her room.
There was a slight drizzle, like the sky was sweating from bruised pores. The crimson-gray wounds plunging the mood of the entire city into a bleary bleakness, which was both stifling and comforting. She pulled the coat more tightly around herself, stretching the leather across her body, almost as if willing the coat to part at it seams. She kept walking. She didn’t seem to know where she was going, she didn’t seem to care.
The bodies of an evening city, buzzed past her in shades of black, uncaring, occupied. Somewhere along the street a group of teenagers had collected for the evening, laughing at some shared joke. The laughter was a muted echo to her packed ears. She stared past them with unseeing eyes, her mind nevertheless registering the unkempt innocence of the teens, before they would be overthrown by waves of adulthood.
She quickened her pace, her boots kicking the droplets of water before they could be absorbed by the stone pavement. Some sort of a let out for her inner turmoil. She stopped at the store and picked up a fresh cigarette. She lit it with shaking hands. She started walking again, the long drags doing their best to calm her strained nerves. She felt really silly about sucking on a potential killer to give her some easy breaths, but then that was life for you, you squeeze the most out of death itself.
She realized her walk had taken her a full circle and she stood once again facing her door. Water dribbled of in lazy rivulets, down the length of her jacket and onto the floor. She stared at the growing puddle near her feet, like blood from an exit wound. She sighed and as if accepting the inevitable walked back into her room.
For eternal moments she sat on the couch, her feet tucked under her. Her eyes unfocused staring at some point on the floor, seemed to mirror her conflict as she made up her mind. She shook her head and picked up the book. Once again.
She never understood why she read thrillers. The chase always made her nervous. And the utter futility of her actions and her sense of desperation because she could not warn the victim always got to her. But she read on, she had to know what happened in the end!
Oh! The thrill of reading!