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Through the Eye of the Beholder

Part Two (30, 39, 51)

By lucyjbPublished 8 months ago Updated 5 months ago 2 min read
Through the Eye of the Beholder
Photo by Clay LeConey on Unsplash




The hallway is so quiet and my steps are muffled by the coarse carpets.




I move my feet faster, running from the quiet, and pull a door open at random. Relief fills me when the chatter of people rushes in.

Around me is a crowded office, cubicles in grids are full, but the people don't look at me, buried in their work or laughter or anger.

They type and click and walk through the maze to lean on one another’s desks. They scribble on sticky notes and press them to their monitors. One makes a joke that I can't hear, but the woman beside them laughs.

I look at the papers on the desk nearest me, but the words are fuzzy and I can only see the outlines of each sentence.

Nobody spares me a glance as I walk through the desks. I run fingertips over the walls and the paper and the wood but somehow they all feel just a little bit wrong.

My steps move ever quicker as a I return to the silence of the hallway, the feeling almost chases me out the door.

It is a relief to get away from the chatter, but the silence still hurts and I move to another door, hesitant at first, until the empty echoes ring in my ears and I move through at a run.

The world around me is bright with sunlight, and when I feel it on my skin something flies out of me with unfounded joy. The sky is boundless, blue blue blue, and I close my eyes and try to soak in the feeling of the breeze off a glittering lake.

When I open my eyes Pan is running towards me with a bounce in his step, and his joy is so potent that I find myself running to meet him.

I feel the wind and I feel the light and I feel the grass beneath my bare feet. I never want to leave this place.

Just as my fingers reach for Pan’s, the world tilts and I find myself surrounded by silence again. I am running down the hall and the sunshine around me has turned into fluorescent light.

I sob into my hands. The memory of sunlight will never be as good as the real thing.

I don't know where the color comes from, but when Iris offers a hand, I take it. She holds me as we walk, and tells me of messages long since delivered.

The elevator is opening in front of us and she rests my hands on the railing. Her eyes are full of rainbows and she vanishes behind the closing doors.


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