Jun 27, 2005 02:55
He moves slowly towards the door. His heart is beating so fast he can feel the blood pulsing through his fingertips. Mere touch would rupture his leather thick skin. He counts the steps, telling himself that it will be calming, though it’s only successful in bringing him closer to his fate. Eight. Nine. Ten. Each step louder than the first on the loose gravel drive. When counting fails to soothe he resorts to taking control of his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. His heart slows and the sound of his blood ceases to boom in his skull. Though his shoes are leaden, and the crisp linen suit, which has adorned his body for days, is finally showing signs of perspiration and wear, he is still moving. Dragging yards behind his swollen and mistreated body, his mind is still grasping for the explanation of what has brought him to the desolate and regrettable position he now finds himself in. His life had never been one of exciting circumstances; and never had a green door with tarnished brass numbers and a cloudy peephole been the determinant of whether he would go home in pieces, or with a beautiful woman by his side. Not until this very moment.