Tales of Fake

It was eight p.m, but time didn't really matter there. It was a place where people would go to disappear, to die. You could feel no time, no hope. Everything, from love to lust, was gone. As soon as you walked through its doors, you felt numb. Whenever the frequent customers walked in, you could tell it was that they needed not to feel. They were sick and tired of the daily chaos, and simply felt like caving in to the carelessness the place offered. There was no menu, no bar. You needn't drinks or food when you gave into the mood. The company of other lonely people was enough; and if it wasn't, you did not belong.

Outside, everything was damped and the air was heavy. The few passer-bies that courageously roamed the streets would barely look up from their feet and the only noise you could hear was the crying desperation coming out of their eyes. Cars barely honked their horns and light was no reason to feel enlightened anymore. People lived in different worlds, and contact was not an option.

She stepped out of her office as usual: with her tired eyes and her heavy body, feeling like she was lifting the weight of the world on her shoulders. Nothing about her made her feel special. A pair of long socks covered her skinny legs up the knees, and just a few centimeters above, a straight and loose skirt would end. The washed out shirt that she was wearing, that was once as white as the whitest grain of sugar, covered every part of her body from her waist up to her bony neck, which had a beautifully simple necklace with a silver heart hanging from it. She was not the kind of woman that would wear any kind of paraphernalia that would make her stand out. She didn't want to stand out. She was just fine being another face in the crowd. Still, this fifth of July, she felt different: she was tired of her void.

Her feet caressed the pavement and, somehow, she felt alive. Usually, she would walk up the before-mentioned place, searching for answers she knew she would not find, or trying to run the hell away from them. But this night, for a reason that she could not grasp, she felt hope. The usual desire of feeling out of herself had vanished, and she felt like floating.

I got sick of my character, so I stopped. This time, it's my fault.