Donald

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.