8.6.14

#12. One Picture. One Sotry || The Pause that Arose

WARNING: Look carefully at this picture because it has so much to tell you.

source: minimalbeing

Downtown.

She enters the building which has now become a bank, she will withdraw money or make a bank transfer; a common action in this area or any area for that matter, nothing out of the ordinary. But what she isn't aware of is the fact; that the events that are about to happen will place a mark upon her life.

Inside you could make out sounds, sounds for some, noises for others. The sound of people talking. The usual sound of people passing over papers, people writing, people signing, or people counting money. The sound of important people, people who cannot handle that their life without money would have no meaning.

She will queue, waiting for her turn. Quiet. Thinking about what she will do next, whether she will call her mother, or perhaps her father to see how he is going on with his European tour. A trip to which she would have gone if it hadn't been for her job.

She could have gone with him. She should have gone with him. She should have made ​​that trip. She shouldn't be here, right now.

She turns her head, looks at the people around her, how they dress, what they do. That way she entertains herself, letting her imagination flow and that's how the time runs until only two people are left in the queue and soon will be her turn.

She stares at the decoration of the building, the paintings on the ceilings, the high inscripted walls and the large french-style windows.

Only one person is left, it will then be her turn.

The building is old but very well preserved. She would have liked to know in what century it was built, who built it, to run her hands along the inscripted lettering. She would have liked to stay here for more time, she would have liked to watch the painted ceilings for some more time. She would have liked to stare some more at the strange mixture of the plushy office furniture and the ancient elements of the building.

But it's her turn.

- Good morning, ma'am. - An old lady greets her, no less beautiful for that. The amount of makeup, she's wearing stands out, those thick and red lips, the pronounced cologne. Her wrinkled hands, accentuated with long neon pink nails. 'It is a work facing the public', that would be her answer if asked.

She turns to her, back to reality, and just at the same moment at which she was going to answer with a weak "Hello", just when she was about to explain to her what she needs, at that same moment a yell is heard.

Her misfortune has just begun.


People sense the disturbance, yet they don't know what to do, where to go. More screams are heard, a child's cry, a folder stumbling to the marble flooring. But it is strange how in the middle of all that chaos, the mere sight of a group of men dressed in black with their masked faces, except for the eyes can impose silence.

Now the room is immersed in a complete reverie. All I hear is the continuous and irregular breaths of fifty people. Altered breaths. They all feel the same: Fear. That feeling that comes over you when you don't know what is going to happen, when you fear how everything might end and when that end in your imagination has no hope, no solace. This is felt throughout the room, as physical as something spiritual, that took birth in each one of them.

They had come to rob the bank.

The now hostages, the bank customers formerly, throw themselves onto the floor, some try to hide, most fail. Everyone tries to go unnoticed, in spite of his bright coloured hair that would not let him, or his eccentric unusual clothing, sure to attract everyone's eyes. Everyone, even the young woman whom I have been noticing since I have arrived.

But I was not the only one. There was someone else who had noticed her. And that man implicated what shouldn't have been related. He thought something that he shouldn't have thought. He made false assumptions. He risked himself and he precipitated, and here is what happened.

He related her to the group of men who had just entered the building. His prejudices led him to it, his hatred produced misapprehensions. He assumed that she belonged to their band, she thought like them, acted like them. No wonder she had been so detached and nervous. What he didn't know was that his imagination could ruin the life of one young woman, one innocent.

He placed his hand into his pocket and in a moment in which the group of men were emptying the drawers, he approached the woman from behind and grabbed her neck and arms, he lifted her, he pulled his hand out of his pocket and pointed to her head with a gun.

She screamed.

Everyone turned to them.

She suddenly froze. She was shaking and breathing hard. The lost look in her eyes could run shivers through you. Her pain, her fear invaded you. She was not afraid to die, on the contrary, she was impasssive to it. But in fact, she was afraid of not being able to say goodbye to her parents, afraid of not being able to say "I love you", to the guy she had loved, afraid of not being able to hug her niece, not anymore. Afraid of not having done enough good in her life. She was afraid of what happened next.

I knew how the story was going to end, but I also knew there was a margin of error in my assumptions.

Death lurked nearby the building, prepared to enter any time and to do what he did best: taking a life.

The atmosphere had become tense, a sort of pause had been created in the actions that were supposed to happen, but the situation, in favor of some and against others could precipitate at any time. One of the masked men had his gun pointed at the man who had, so suddenly, abducted the woman. The rest took care to keep in place. Death was still hovering around the building, closer was the moment when death would rush in and do what was to be done.

The pause that had arisen, lengthened, but anytime it would all rush to a tragic end.







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  • 1 Reviews:

    Anonymous said...

    MashaAllah sister very intense writing. Followed indeed! Check my two blog out inshaAllanh.
    One is a writing blog too.

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