Creative Writing: The City Of Locked Doors

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CHAPTER TWO
The City of Locked Doors

Eleven Months Later
The sky was an opaque, gray-brown color; a thick fog enveloped the city like a wet, sepia blanket, starving the populous of a fresh breath, or ray of slanted sunlight. Seldom was there a variation in hue from horizon to opposite horizon, it was stubbornly blended, one single, dull color through and through. Oblivious to the gloom of the outdoors, a tall man with fair, curly hair reclined thoughtfully in his black office chair. His mind traipsed about aimlessly. First it found an unsettling rut, incessantly returning to the woman. On every recurrence the man’s face turned scarlet, his throat burned, and something unpleasant swelled up inside him. Furiously cramming these thoughts to
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With a defeated sigh, he turned back to his desk.
Someone slammed their body against the man’s front door, groaned, slammed once more, and knocked harshly for many seconds.
Startled, the man whipped his whole body to face the door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The doorknob rattled. A shrill voice tore through what was once a pleasant silence:
“Open up, dammit! Ih’know you’re in there!”
The man on the inside of the door was tall; he was strong, not easily overpowered. The lady on the other side sounded frail, perhaps even a Freak. But what could he gain through letting her in? Nothing, thought the man, he shouldn’t open the door—but no. No, curiousity lashed out, longing to seize control—!
The man had made his way across the room and he threw the door open violently, revealing a little old lady grasping a brown paper bag. Her mouth gaped in surprise for a second or two, but quickly returned to a natural looking, business-like frown, her brows furrowed and eyes bright with intent.
“Detective Firstname Lastname?” she said with a heavy English; and—on seeing the man’s suspicious, scrutinizing glance—she added: “Don’t worry, Ih’m not a

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