Anne was not one to worry. Instead of its kind to land on the parapets wet, take your time to light a cigarette and wait for centuries. Kind of calm. Others might have reflected the belief, but Anne was deeply quiet. Some like to observe things and people, drawing a kind of ridiculous pride. It was not the case. Because, and Anne knew, certainly, nothing is gained by observing others. No, those who believe in learning by the actions and attitudes, those who boast of touching the heart of the human by careful listening and pointing behaviors are shit immobile. Anne knew that action alone could disrupt lives, and if there was one thing that concerned Anne, was the upheaval. Simply, there was downtime.
Very young, she had an enemy. It was not a figment of the imagination, it was a very concrete form: a woman's voice. A voice that whispered promises and threats of torture. A voice echoed through the mind of a little girl of seven years. This voice is manifested every Wednesday on the phone, when Anne was alone. The voice promised her death if she try not to get the next call. His death, that of his mother, his father, especially that of his cat, and, really, Anne had learned to believe in revolution. A few months later, the voice was silent, but he had to wait several years to explain to the little girl voice that name was Jane, she had been an adventure of the father of Anne Versoony, and instability had done the rest. Since then, Jane had materialized with photos, research, learning, and Anne had come to know all of the voice. Nevertheless, Anne knew she would cross the vote on Thursday on the subway platform. Yes, coincidences presided over the turmoil, and Anne was happy.
Jane was waiting for the subway voice had melted in the banality of the world, and the little girl of seven years no longer existed. Nothing threatens the happy days, and it is a tranquil hand pressed the back of an old woman when the first train arrived in sufficient deceleration. The observation led to nothing, Anne knew even better than the voice could never claim to be heard. And it's a quiet frustration that captures Anne's eyes when she crossed Fifteen, five meters away.
few years earlier, lorsqu'Akhilene23 listened to the opening bars of
Space Oddity aligning few simple lines on his blog, she instinctively knew she would appeal mainly to the desperate virgins. It was not a complicated girl, and vulnerable enough to become easy prey to hunters bitter. Thus she had learned to know Fifteen, a provider insignificant three meters of open space, which filed comments equally insignificant on his blog. It was not very complicated to confuse his eyes, turning away abruptly sickened every time that Anne was opening a page of his blog during the break. Yes, observers believe themselves invisible, and wait patiently for impractical projects. Akhilene was curious to know what level of mediocrity he would sink before taking action. And on Thursday, Anne would have to stop waiting. Fifteen
muttered some words she did not understand that at its close. The century is moving towards me.
I am the century? Anne asked, smiling. Fifteen
She followed outward from the station, in the hysterical crowd.
You are a representation of century ignores me, Akhilene. Unfathomable
degree of mediocrity. Anne chose to abbreviate.
This woman deserved to die, whatever one may think. I will not explain anything, but I can give you the attention, Fifteen. I can give you almost everything. It starts with a beer?
I begin with you denounce Akhilene. It begins with the police.
Anne was surprised. Then she realized that the time for action had passed. She understood that anyone can understand, when a story ends.
She gazed for a moment the flow of lives gathered in this artery, plunged naturally. The sheet metal blew his upper chest.
