Two black gloves. They are calm and sure. And deadly. Or they were. Two minutes ago. In the lower level. Where screams of agony would go unheard and cries for mercy unnoticed.
There is a spot of blood on the left wrist. It will dry and become a part of the black leather.
In the elevator now. The right pointer directs it up to the surface. Now they fold and rest. And wait for the elevator to glide up a few floors. Plain beige walls slip by in the windowed box. Then the atrium appears. Pink granite floors graced with leafy plants.
The gloves unfold as the elevator dings open. They swing towards the closest revolving door.
Not a soul left in the building.
Gloves grasp the chilled bar of the door and push. Turn, turn, turn. The chillier air greets and the gloves are enveloped into the black of the night.
I love this. Everything about it. The mystery, the foreboding, the eventual climax of murder. It was executed so well that the black gloves would've been proud. Lovely. <3
ReplyDeleteAH! What's coming? This is really good. My two main critiques is expansion and play more with the tense. Reading how the tense changes in the first few lines created foreboding and a lack of relief. Carry it a bit more, while also expanding the narrative would create a great work.
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