January 4, 1997

The sky was as gray as the dirty sloshes of snow on the sides of the curb. The remaining streaks of sunlight were quickly receding.

A young woman rushed past the intersection between 5th and Washington, holding two large brown paper bags, past the dozens of cars honking and waiting for the light to turn green. People were streaming down the walkways of the stores. Post-holiday shoppers mingled amongst the regular bustle of commuters.

She rushed down the walkway, only to be caught in a sudden opposing crowd of shoppers. In a blur of heads and scarves, her hand slipped on the bags, spilling their contents on the walkway.

Click. Click. Click.

The limousine cruised down 5th like a snake, its black windows hiding the passengers in a dark smog of shade.

He set the pen down, looking out the window at the passerbys, feeling somewhat disdainful of the Hallmark-perpetuating shoppers and the inane holidays they clung to. He always hated to come to town and witness such meaningless frivolity. After a while, it had all become quite purposeless, like a trudging ritual with no consequential outcome. He took a sip from his glass before putting it back down on the side compartment.

He took a long breath. It was a long ride. It was a long day.

It was then that he noticed a frazzled young girl ahead, picking up spilled groceries from the walkway, her forehead crinkling with lines of frustration. He commanded the limo driver to slow down, peering out the window. Momentarily, the world seemed to slow its pace.

She looked up for a moment to glance at the limo, but then resolved to picking up her groceries again.

In an unintelligible shout, the man ordered the limo driver to stop, pushing open the door and exiting the car.

He stepped onto the walkway, stopping for a moment to pick up a stray tomato. He approached the girl, handing her the lone tomato.

She looked up, pushing aside a strand of red hair behind her ears, and gave a nervous smile. "Oh, thank you."

"Elizabeth?" he asked, his eyes fixated on her with a hint of recognition.

"Um, no, sorry," she mumbled, feeling embarrassed.

He bent over and helped her pick up the spilt items, never ceasing to take his eyes off of her.

"Thanks," she burst out, flustered and rouging heavily at the ears.

"What's your name?" he asked her.

She looked up at him, his eyes piercing into hers. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, his dark hair combed down smoothly with a few strands escaping and falling over his breathtaking gray eyes. On that icy cold evening, squatting on the middle of the walkway, all physical movement felt mechanical.

She noticed that he was dressed well; he wore a black button-up shirt, gray slacks, and expensive looking black shoes. He had dark and commanding look, an aura of lavish superiority.

He was staring at her intently.

"Claire," she finally uttered out, quickly averting her eyes from his. "Thank you again, so much, for helping me-- I mean people don't even care about helping anyone anymore--" she prattled on, words coming without thought and seemingly coinciding with bouts of shivers. It was an attempt to soften the uncomfortable silence.

She rose to her feet as soon as most of her items were back in the bags, clutching them unsteadily.

"I can help you take these home," he said, almost as though a question, but mostly as a declaration.

She bit the inside of her lip, slightly bewildered at such a depth of kindness from a complete stranger. Her suspicion got the best of her. "No that's really okay. I'm just down the street anyway. Thanks," she replied, half in a mumble, and walked away hurriedly.

He simply stood there in silence, staring at her receding figure as she deftly maneuvered her way through the crowd. He felt a rush of action and movement within. He wanted to stop her, he wanted to say something, but in the sudden crush of people, he found nothing but a choking sense of silence.

She returned home, opening the door to the worn-out apartment and entered. Setting the groceries down, she went into her bedroom and changed into a large Red Sox sweatshirt and sweatpants. It was cold, but the thermostat was once again broken, leaving her in the chilly one-bedroom flat in hopes that the landlord would remember to fix it.

Returning to the kitchen, she reached for the small mini-fridge and heated up some left-over pasta. She flopped herself on the sofa in front of the TV, some late-night game-show blaring to no particular audience. For a while, she hardly seemed immersed in the show.

She had seen her mother today.

Her mother was unable to do much other than look at her for a moment and crack a half-smile. The thought itself made her smile.

Perhaps life was like a game-show. This phase of her life was just a bad turn of the roulette wheel, a wrong choice of doors, an incorrect answer. Soon, though, she would land on the right spot, choose the right door, figure out the correct answer, and she would walk out the door with a million dollars in her hands.

Sleep finally blanketed her when thoughts blended together till they made no sense. Like most days, she fell asleep on her couch.

She put on her usual black polo shirt, adjusting her nametag, and threw on her jacket. The shiny gold letters "CLAIRE" glistened on her nametag in the light as she picked up her black purse, slid into her shoes, and left the apartment.

The cold air hit her cheeks briskly as she made her way down the walkway. She pulled her jacket up higher to cover more of her face. She could smell the stale scent of old food mixed with the fading scent of laundry detergent on the lapels of her jacket.

Suddenly, her body was thrust backwards hard, her throat uttering a smothered yelp as she found herself being pulled backwards by a pair of strong arms. She struggled as she found herself being shoved backwards into a car.

"What the hell? " she shrieked, kicking and shoving, turning to see who had grabbed her. It was a large, stocky man with receding hair. His face was unshaven and tough-looking, and his general demeanor was brutish. "What are you doing?!"

"That's her," the driver of the car, another equally brutish man, interjected, nodding for the man holding her to pull her in.

He pushed her into the car, going in after her and reaching to shut the door. She screamed, throwing aimless punches, claws, and kicks before she was finally silenced by a rough hand over her mouth and a cold, small cylinder against her back.

She was breathing hard now, partially because her mouth was covered. The car started moving, and in no time, it was driving down alleyways and into streets she had never been to before.

"Don't scream. You make this easy for us, we make it easy for you."

He took his hand from her mouth, only to be cascaded with flustered cries. "I don't have any money, I swear! Look in my purse, there's only like ten dollars in there, just take it, please leave me! I don't have anything!" she cried, her face flushing with color as she fell into hysterics.

He laughed, almost warmly, but she could sense his condescension. "Doll, we don't want your money."

"What do you want with me then?" she gasped, still feeling the hard metal against her back.

"Have you been a bad girl?" he asked, his voice going low. It was a dangerous tone.

She was afraid to answer the question. Her breathing had quickened now.

"The boss wants to see you, and I'm guessing you've either done something really naughty, or really nice."

Thank you! Next chapter is also up. Please feel free to review... my efforts feel more meaningful with your comments!