Her hair was the color of the first ray of sunlight through a closed
window and Donald felt it was equally, if not more, beautiful. He spoke nasally, hesitantly, the sound of a veteran of trepidation, the buzz of an alarm clock.
“Ms. Raedona,
how do you respond to the critical consensus on your role in Murders in the
East?”
She stared
at him blankly, and then subtly rolled her eyes, as if she was hoping he would
not notice the movement. Donald was proud of the chic décor of his office, but
the colours seemed to blur and fade in her radiance.
“I don’t
think people should listen to critics. When have critics ever made any great
films? How do I know they know anything?”
Her voice
was as soft as the edge of a shadow and Donald felt himself quiver with each felt syllable.
“That
should be fine, Ms. Raedona,” he managed before his vocal cords were
overcome by the nervous twitch. He diverted his eyes and turned off
his recorder. She passed her
hand through her luxurious hair and stood to leave. Donald desperately tried to
force himself out of silence. She walked out of the room, her movements
defining grace. Donald blurted out a declaration he immediately wanted to tape
over,
“I adore
all that you’ve done!”
She did not turn back, and Donald was grateful to find he’d already turned the recorder
off. He could only imagine how torturous it would be to listen to his shrill, ill-at-ease
voice over and over again. As he heard her scream though, he wished he’d left
it on.
Donald jumped to his feet, and
warily moved towards the sound of the scream. His curiosity conquered his
nervousness and he stepped through the door that beauty had just passed
through. He surveyed the hall and could not see any movement. His eyes were then
drawn to the window across from him. He moved closer, ignoring the spectacular
view of the city, intent on the glass. Something was terribly amiss, he
thought, and put his hand out towards the pane so that he could look down at
the bustling streets.
His hand met only air, and he fell
forward. He twisted violently, and managed to grab a hold of an
edge. The street seemed incredibly distant and he stumbled backwards,
his heart beating rapidly. For a few seconds he could only stare at the floor.
He eventually looked back towards the panel-less window. It was difficult to tell the glass was now 300 feet below. It was several minutes
before he began shouting, but much longer before he felt safe enough to stand.
