The City's Colors: II

The city's colors:

The sound of the voice echoed like a tin drum: constant and sharp. But the words...weren't there anymore. My ears refused to listen. My
eyes began to fail. I could feel the world falling away into a soft puddle of existence. Then the feeling of moving feet along my office floor.

'mom...I tried. I really did.'

More shuffling, and the floor beneath me: the little I could feel had been taken away.

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I sat at my Office desk, staring into the void of my doorway. Why was i still here? The mexs had come to collect their coins; to validate my life for a few more short months. Or maybe weeks. And then unsatisfied by my giving...had they left?

I stared down at the papers below my fists: loose and curled but sore from my shaking. I couldn't have imagined that encounter...but it was a tempting thought.

"The coins...they should be gone."

I opened up my top desk drawer, searching: looking close into its' every corner. The single light bulb beside my desk, hanging low enough to touch when standing: gave off its' low ember light. I still remember a time when this much light would be considered dim.

Something cold and silver touched my hand, suddenly. Beneath the panel of my drawer...i could feel those five coins I'd paid.

My eyes jumped to the doorway, still empty: still black. No sign of the mex.

"Mem?"

"What is it?"

I could have questioned the way she held her arm back behind her at an odd angle; or why a knife print stained her too-pale face. But those aren't the kinds of questions to ask a person. Let alone someone who makes as much of an effort to live quietly as poi does.

"The Secretary at the mayors--He's sent a messenger."

Messengers are basically delivery boys who come and bring important individuals to other important individuals. Which is why my cocked-eyes expression, when met with pois' own silently astonished one, served as more than enough of statement of how unexpected this was.

I stood, slowly. part of me wondered if i'd ever be coming back.

Poi watched me with wide eyes and nervous fingers playing at Her frayed skirt tie. I imagine her eyes had been blue. The same way my hair had once been red. And this blue-eyed woman was now afraid for me, something I wanted to change.

I'm tired of being afraid.

I followed the young man, his back trimmed in purple and gold--out my door and down the street