Unpromised Home

the ticking clock

'in which hope begins to die'

The days were passing by slowly. Monotonous yet unrelenting in their crawl forward. It makes you want to rip your hair out. It was all beginning to blur together, hours meshing into and out of your memory like your brain has become a sieve.

You huff quietly as you throw your coat on over top of your shoulders. A bitter sigh leaves you as you shove your hands into the pockets of the jacket. There was nothing in them. Just empty pits that end in fabric. It makes your stomach twist strangely. A sigh slips from your lips and you shake off the feeling.

Making sure you have the things you need, you make your way out of the apartment without much more thought. Not that you have to bring much. Just the apartment's key, so you can let yourself in and out. You lock the door as you step outside, making your way out of the building so you can walk the rest of the way to the office building. 

The walk was dreary. Miserable, snowy, cold. Your hands were shoved deep into your coat's pockets, one hand clenched tightly around the cool metal of the key. You grumble as your body shudders with the frigid cold. 

You've grown a hatred for this walk, likely spurred on by the cold that you are constantly forced to face. January is so unbearably miserable... Thankfully, it's almost over. Not to say February won't be equally as miserable, but at least it won't be January anymore. You're unsure if that's a good thing yet.

As time continues its march, the future grows to be an ever more nagging reality. The phony war would end soon, though you're unsure of the exact date, and after that point, all hell will break loose. Millions upon millions lose their lives. It's awful to think about. Almost makes you wish that you weren't aware of what was to come. That you were equally as blind to what was coming as every other citizen of this planet. But you weren't. And you were through with pretty things like wishes. 

With a quiet sigh, you make your way into the office. The temperature difference makes your body feel like it's burning. Obviously, it isn't. The human body is so foolish sometimes. Whatever it takes to keep itself alive you suppose.

You were quiet as you walked to your office, walking up the stairwell, unbothered by its disrepair. Pushing the door open, you glance out the bay of windows, cringing inwardly as you see that it's begun snowing.

"Great..." You mumble, almost more miserable than before as you glare weakly out the window. You beat it on the walk to work at least. Hopefully, it won't last long. You've got no interest in walking through the snow. 

You push into your office. An envelope sits on your desk, unbothered by the strewn pens and paper that about on your desk. You pick the envelope up, flipping it over to see the address. It wasn't for you. You weren't surprised by this. You'll deliver it later. You've got no interest in even looking at America right now, let alone potentially being forced to have a conversation with him.

You take a seat, your chair spinning slightly to the side. You stare at the plain wall that's normally to your right, your expression devoid of any emotions. You feel so ridiculous. You've felt nothing but an odd whirlwind of emotions that feels like everything and yet nothing at all for weeks now. 

Maybe it's just the isolation. You've been fairly isolated these past few weeks, haven't you? When was the last time you had a proper conversation? You're here at this building, surrounded by people and yet you feel as though there's something separating you from them. There is, technically. You're America's 'personal assistant' after all, even if that title was mostly just for show. You aren't exactly assisting with anything unless you count delivering mail for Layla. But that just makes you a glorified mailman rather than any form of assistant.