I see past your walls

Part 110

Lance walked quietly, his eyes fixed on Coran's back as the older man donned a suit—a sophisticated ensemble exuding elegance and authority. Surprised by the plethora of suits Coran possessed, Lance had assisted in choosing one. Despite the initial skepticism over an orange suit that appeared hideous on the hanger, it transformed remarkably on Coran. Paired with elegant brown shoes and neatly combed hair, the ensemble radiated sophistication. Lance reminded himself not to judge clothing by its appearance on a hanger but on a person. He pondered how long this lesson would stick. He was after all quick to judge clothing according to his own tastes.

The day had started normally; the weather was nice, but Lance wasn't going to school today, even though it was a Monday. He had to dress himself neatly and fit his foot into a size too small shoes. Coran hadn't had time to get him new ones, and this was the best they could do for the time being. Considering the whole debacle of missing shoes had been rediscovered the day before, Lance had completely forgotten he needed new ones. After being sick for so long, and trying not to think of this Monday, it had all slipped his mind. It just had to be that his only nice shoes had gotten too small, and he would never wear his everyday shoes to a court meeting. That would never come about.

Every step pressed on his front toes. He tried visualizing wearing ballerina shoes, though that didn't help much. He sighed deeply, eyes focusing on the orange back again, wondering how long this corridor would be. It felt like they had been walking for ages, and he just wanted to sit down. He had reflected on walking down a lot of long corridors as of late, wondering why people built such long corridors or why he had to be in buildings with seemingly endless halls. Couldn't there just be short corridors for once? Another sigh left his dry lips, his throat parched. He had felt too nervous to drink anything on the way; now he regretted it.

Their steps echoed in the narrow hall, other footsteps audible both ahead and behind them. Suppressing the urge to look back, Lance, in contrast to Coran's colorful attire, wore black tight suit pants, a plain white shirt, and a light blue jeans jacket. Unable to locate his black jacket, he settled for the one that matched the shirt, maintaining a balance between neatness and avoiding overdressing. That was his favorite way to dress, though he sadly lost most of his clothing; he still tried to get his hands on cheap clothes that could pull off the looks nice and not overdressed vibe. Another sigh had Coran, glancing back with concern, inquiring, "Are you okay, son?" seemingly staring into his very soul. Internally, Lance responded with a resounding 'No.' He was not okay and wondered if he ever would be. Lance gave a weak nod as a reply, "is that it?" he asked as he pointed to a door, numbered in a way he could swear looked familiar. Thinking back on the day before he was sure that number had been displayed on the case papers. Coran diverted his focus on the door and nodded "Yes that's it" He sounded pleased, probably too sick of all these long halls. Lance wondered if Coran wanted this to be over with quickly, he had after all needed to take a lot of time off for Lance's sake. Lance was relieved Coran had let the subject go. He feared that if he hadn't made Coran focus somewhere else the older man would have inquired further, and without a doubt, Lance's mask would have crumbled.

The door revealed a large open area, chairs neatly placed in rows, polished mahogany-paneled walls soared upwards, adorned with somber legal crests that whispered the history of countless cases. The dim lighting overhead cast a warm, muted glow, creating pockets of shadow where the serious business of justice unfolded. A smell of old parchment, sweet and broken dreams stained the hall. Lance stood motionless in the doorway, his mind roaring with all possible possibilities today could bring. In the distance, he could hear the murmur of the seated spectators. Lance wondered who they were, recognizing none of the people on the seats. Was his trial that exciting that it caused unknown strangers to come and listen in on one of his most venerable moments? The thought made Lance's stomach churn, he felt sick, his stomach rumbled and he felt like throwing up. Hating the feeling of nausea more than anything he tried to focus his mind on the sound of paper being turned over, the clangs of chairs being pulled out. Clicking of a pen hitting a table and the smell of the courtroom. Though not pleasant it at least distracted him from wanting to throw up. A small victory if anything.