Jim sprang bolt-upright on the sofa. How long had be been lost in thought? His cold coffee partly answered that, staring unflinchingly from the low table in front of him. Rising sharply, he headed for the front door, grabbing the closest jacket on the way. He patted himself down as he stepped over the threshold, auto-piloting through his idiosyncratic routine: phone, wallet, keys.
And pocket. This time, the shirt pocket.
Closing the door behind him, Jim became a part now of the frantic, yet emotionless, metropolis that neither knew nor cared about his newfound urgency. Everyone out here was sealed in their own bubble of concern, both banal and otherwise. This was as it always had been, of course, and Jim was no exception to their rule, but it made the slip of paper buttoned into his pocket feel suddenly trivial. It wasn't until he was safely ensconced in he back of a black-cab that Jim forced himself to read it again, lingering for fewer seconds this time, he hoped, on the bloodstain...
DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
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