Monica
Classical music softly diffused all around in the old, majestic hall. Nick and his friend were met by an old fashioned butler, very Jeeves-like, Nick noticed with a certain marveled astonishment, and told to wait while they were being announced.
The place itself was meant to impress the people who came in visit. And Nick surely was impressed.
"Hey, look at that marble staircase...that's huge," he whispered to his older friend. "And the portraits...wow, look at those curtains, must be velvet or something like that," he went on, wide eyed, waving a hand in the direction of the burgundy brocade that partly covered the wall at their right.
"Bach," Milton replied, clearly unimpressed.
Nick interrupted the close exam of the stern looking noble in the portrait on his left, and frowned. "Huh?"
"Overture no. 3, in D major."
Nick just stared at him, confused.
"The music. It's Bach," Milton explained, exasperated, but also a little amused by his friend awe. "Just good, old Bach."
They smiled at the memory. Many years had passed since those happy days when the whole family used to sit together in the garden, daylight slowly surrendering to darkness, and shared jokes and tales. Granny Mary had always had a penchant for tales, and a great sense of humor. How many laughs, how much happiness.
They would never forget those great nights, the peace, the quiet, the family love.
Now, both Jake and Lily had their own families: partners, children, homes. Their lives had taken different paths, and they had grown increasingly apart in the last years. Jake suddenly looked up, his eyes bright in the dim lit room. "Why don't we have a BBQ at my house tomorrow evening? "
Granny Mary had long gone, their old house sold. But he was sure the magic of those starry nights was still hiding somewhere, waiting. All they had to do was get the family, and the new members, together under the blue sky.
Withered as the daylight that dies when sunset comes.
Nick had helped the older man, despite the evident mutual dislike, so it was high time Joe returned the favor. Many things in life were unfair, if not completely wrong. Many people only cared about their own business, their own well-being.
Joe hadn't lived a perfect life. He'd got a raw deal since the beginning, but, to be completely honest, it was fair to say that his behaviour had been far from flawless, either.
But some things just needed to be done.
It wasn't like he was looking for redemption, no. He doubted a single good deed was enough to even out a life full of carelessness and wrongdoings.
He just felt, with all his being, with wath was left of his coscience, with his old, tired heart, that it was time to do the right thing.
How could have he been so blind? His second and third in command were in love with each other and he had always failed to notice! The damn signals had been there all along.
The timid looks they kept shooting at each other when they thought no one was paying attention. The way they suddenly blushed for apparently no reason. Their growing emphaty. The bright smiles. The saddened expressions each of'em wore when the other one couldn't join for a beer after work. The way their hands gently brushed every now and then.
He frowned. After all, he had probably already noticed, but just pretended not to.
But now, dammit, he couldn't feign ignorance anymore. He had seen'em together in broad daylight, and they had seen him.
What was he supposed to do? Fraternization between ranks was kinda frowned upon, let alone a damn relationship. He sighed. This was one of the things he hated the most about being in command.
Crying in the rain. How cliched. Still, it was exactly what I was doing, my tears mingling with the raindrops.
We're almost never like we seem.
I may look like a peaceful, good-natured and reasonably happy person, from the outside, but I'm not.
Inside me there's war, destruction, inside me a fire always burns, inside me flames of unrelenting anger, heating, inflaming.
But there's something that can't be heated, inside me. My heart will always be cold as ice.
The little, tender lamb was happily trudgind through the field.
Maybe lambs can't smile, maybe they can't feel emotions, maybe they can't think.
But, well, this particular lamb was simply different. No one had ever told him he couldn't smile, think or be happy, or that he wasn't supposed to, so he just did.
It was a lamb's smile. But such a happy one!
Fred smiled, observing the constant, friendly and reassuring bickering of his two friends. He knew it was their own personal way to say they cared for each other. The bound that tied them had quickly grew and morphed into a deep friendship, and it had done a lot of good to both of them.
Pete, who had used to be a hard and sad man, now seemed younger and happier.
Brad, on the other hand, despite being almost thirty years younger than Pete, found his company relaxing, and laughed and smiled as Fred had thought wasn't possible anymore. Their friendship had managed to instill in both of'em a new joy, a zest for life that they had forgotten. The fate had made them meet, and Fred was grateful for this. None of them had had an easy, happy life. In their own way, it had looked like they both had nothing, or nobody, to live for. But now, they had found a home, they had found a family. They had found each other.
He turned a last time and looked at the automatic gate closing behind him. Just like a movie, he thought.
The big, grey building of the prison stood up against the bright, blue sky. He took in a deep breath and let his gaze wander. Everything outside seemed so colorful: the scrawny, timid grass cropping up near the sidewalk. The cars, the trees, the leaves. Even the few people who were unlucky enough to live in that sad neighborhhod. Everything seemed bright and joyful in comparison to the monotonous greyness of the prison.
Two years had passed since he had been sentenced to jail for grand theft. Two years of nightmares. Two years of Hell.
He had paid for his mistakes. And now, he was free.
He breathed in again the already hot air of the summer morning and smiled. It smelled like freedom.
The last time he had managed to write something, had been four weeks ago. Four weeks and two days, to be exact. Four weeks and two days of blank, empty hours spent looking at the same mockingly white page. He was the paper type: his friends often laughed at him for this, but he was definitely a screwup with computers, and he absolutely couldn't write his ideas looking at a screen. Trouble was, it now looked like he couldn't write, full stop. Paper or not paper, he simply couldn't find any more ideas. Writer block had struck him in full force and he was at a loss to snap out of it.
And then, finally, in the midst of a nightmares ridden night, inspiration decided it was time to pay him a visit, and knocked at his door. He jerked awake, excited, immediately got up and, heedless of his disheveled aspect, he sat at his desk, grabbing his favourite pen, an old fountain pen his brother had brought him from New York years ago.
He smiled: his thoughts were ready to be written down.
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