Creative Writing: Keys

Thought I’d share some old creative writing with you today.I found this on an old hard drive of mine. The prompt was “missing keys”.

A Waiting Dilemma (945)

If only she had remembered her keys. She had asked, no, begged, to be given the responsibility, the challenge really, and her day-to-day schedule echoed her desire to make good on this responsibility. She was always on time; always cooperative with the others, and always pushing herself to prove she was worthy. And then in a cruel twist, she failed to remember her keys.

The previous few weeks had been amazing; arguably the best weeks of her life. She had proved, not only to herself, but also to the others, that she was truly capable of handling such a task, that her newfound responsibility wasn’t too much of a burden on her. Sure she was young, and some of the others resented her for her wanton use of sex appeal to manipulate others, but there was no denying she was good at what she did. In some circles the comments came back as “gifted”, “a genius beyond belief”, and “what this company needs at this exact moment”, but it never seemed to put any pressure on her.

The day had started so wonderfully. The entire company at ease, laughing, joking, even with her, and the hours swirled away in a funnel cloud of camaraderie and expectant ambition for the grand opening that had been advertised for months. A black tie affair, completely sold out as most charity functions are, this was to be the foundation upon which the company would project itself. And they were ready. They were more than ready.

Now, as Victoria sat in the waiting room of Ebony General Hospital, holding a bloodied rag in her lap, her new Karen Millen dress ripped and frayed, she wondered why her training seemed to fail her at the precise moment it shouldn’t have. The hospital was a flurry of black of white, an orchestra of noise wafting down the hallways and from behind desks, the ominous percussion of voices yelling, giving orders, and calling out for patients. The fluidity at which the gentle tones of hope and caring, spoken at barely a whisper, like the building crescendo of a woodwind section, flitted between the aggressive rumblings, a melancholic accompaniment of oral splendor amid a macabre vision of elitism, were oddly breathtaking.

As the next droplets of blood bubbled gently from the cut on her shoulder, the stinging in her eyes more from the tears she had shed than from the gas of the riot squad, Victoria felt alone despite being surrounded by her contemporaries. She had never worked with such a tight and cohesive unit before. Okay, she hadn’t been doing this for the years that some of them had; but there was no denying her ability. And people liked her. Was it her fault that she was born with her dad’s desire and her mom’s breasts? She knew she was more than a pretty face, and this was her way of showing it. She had earned this opportunity.

The night she found out she went home and cried. Long since removed from her parents, and desperately single, she was moved to tears when the realization flooded her. She was overcome with it all, and as she chirped into the phone to her best friend, over a thousand miles away in distance but connected to her in a way that few people are lucky to share, she thumbed through every dress in her closet for the night that was still months away. Since that first night, the night when she admitted she had no fears, that she was the right person for the job, that she had trained her whole life for the opportunity and it was happening at the right time, she had gone out and bought a dozen dresses to wear when the city came calling.

She dabbed the rivulets away from her shoulder and smiled at the young boy across the aisle from her. His wide-eyed stare told her he had no idea what had just happened. He was innocent in the whole ordeal and probably took shelter underneath his father, an overbearing man with a giant belly and pants that sat inches above his ankles. When the equipment and instruments started flying, the child probably was in the safest place in the house.

When Victoria was summoned by a nurse, the pain had started to come back to her left leg. She stared at the purple bruise, almost pulsing under the dull orange lights and nauseating white walls of the hospital. She composed herself, as she knew all eyes, as they had been since she was promoted, were fixed on her. She walked, measured and deliberate, until she found herself sitting in an isolation room feeling sick. At once, a doctor walked in.

“At the gala this evening I take it?” He spoke when he saw her dress.

“Yes, and it didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. In fact, I don’t think I’ve had nightmares this bad.”

“That sounds a bit harsh.” He smiled as he squeezed the cut on her arm.

She winced, “Ever have one of those nights when everything you know, know from memory, just evades you and nothing you can do is the way it should be?”

“Complacency at its finest I see.”

“Yeah, well, that was me tonight.”

“From what I hear it was a full scale ruckus in the orchestra. It all went squirrelly during Beethoven’s fifth.”

“I know. I was there. And I know that piece of music back to front. I can’t believe I messed it up.” She stared at the table as he placed the initial stitch in her arm. “Who knew being a concert pianist would be so dangerous.”

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