Drabble #1: Possibly Just Another Overreaction
Gosh, was that the time already? It had taken her longer than she had expected to return home and boy had the traffic been heavy. What she had estimated to be an hour trip tops, soon turned into a several-hours torture behind a crammed lane of violent honking, impatience and not-forgetting-to-mention, extremely rude drivers.
By the time it took for the taxi to pull in front of the apartment complex, a handful of notes emptied into the driver's eager hands, and for its sole, exhausted passenger to make the slow crawl from the elevator to front door, the clock's hand was well past the seventh mark. It was a miracle she didn't crash through the door from pure exhaustion, or at the sheer relief that the forsaken day was nearing its end. Falling into the comforting recesses which she supposed she called 'home', or at least as close a definition of the word, she was greeted by the familiar sight of the one other occupant of the humble abode.
He was sitting in his usual spot on the dark plush sofa, his favourite white shirt a stark contrast against the black upholstery. Immaculately clean and crisp as always, she noted, noticing the glistening beads clinging to the ends of his hair. The bright screen light glinted off the edge of his glasses and wet tresses, casting his whole head in an iridescent glow. Just how long had he been sitting there, riveted to that tiny, flat rectangle, as the hours ticked by? If the array of empty cups and the drained teapot was of any indication, it was obvious the sitting statue had been there for quite some time.
And what a perfect statue he was, completely unmoving and blank, and still ravishingly radiant. In fact, she probably wouldn't have even noticed his presence at all; her mind too otherwise occupied by the irresistible urge to run for her room and dive headlong into a dreamless sleep. That was, if she even made it that far without fainting in the hallway beforehand, as it often occurred. It didn't come as a surprise anymore when she would awaken to find herself clearly not in the bed she had hoped, but lying in the most bizarre of locations. She did it so often that it soon became just another natural routine in her life, the same with her frequent comings-and-goings from the apartment, and every time she'd always find him sitting there waiting for her return.
The distinctive clicking of keys in the background was the only indication that the statue was, in fact, alive. There were no other signs of movement; neither greeting nor acknowledgement made. Was he even aware of the world beyond that tiny, flickering screen, or had he turned as painfully oblivious as she did when it came to technology?
Moving slowly, as one would when approaching their prey so as not to startle him, she decided to test her theory.
"I'm back," she stated as-a-matter-of-factly, though it was clearly obvious.
He ignored her. Grey eyes remained glued to the screen, fine eyebrows knitted together in concentration. Was he angry?
"Sorry I'm late, had to catch a cab and traffic was a hassle." Wait, why did she even have to explain herself anyway? Let alone, apologise.
He wasn't going to budge, was he? She tried again, daring to provoke his anger at being distracted.
"How long are you going to leave your hair wet until you catch pneumonia?"
Her only answer was the uninterrupted staccato of rapid keystrokes – still no response.
The previously dispelled irritation she thought she had left behind on the elevator suddenly flickered alive inside her. If anything, she hated being ignored. Especially when she was at any moment about to keel over from sleep deprivation, purposefully pushing her buttons wasn't a smart move. Exhaustion tended to aggravate her strange behaviour; strange things bordering on violent tendencies. Anything and everything could happen; there was no telling when or what she would do.
Picking up the heavy and damp towel hanging off the back of the kitchen stool, for example, only to suddenly volt right into the side of his head a split-second later. She didn't even think about it. The instant her sight had settled on it, her hand automatically acted on a whim.
Did her keen hearing just detect a distinct yelp? She damn well hoped so.
Her good arm was bound to inflict some damage. Often, she concluded that that hand had a mind of its own, and an extremely mischievous one at that. But whether or not it would be facing punishment for its mischief, she wasn't planning on sticking around.
Knowing full-well that he was more than likely to hurl the thing just as quickly and as hard in retaliation, she hurriedly ducked off to her bedroom. She wasn't planning on losing her hand anytime soon, no matter how naughty it had been.