Paragraph Two:

The cold pavement sent chills through her thin, pointy shoes. It was as though they had turned into tiny pink icicles, as had her hands. It was expected that the soggy air would manage to sneak through her tissue like clothing, it did; she released a shiver and felt a little better. But no matter, no matter on this Winters morning; the train should arrive within fifteen minutes or so and she would step onto it’s thin, bumpy surface, hand in her ticket and sit as still as possible trying with all her might not to think about where she was going. Work; Something unavoidable. The other passengers appeared strangely glum. A middle aged man with a face painted with sorrow stood hunched into himself, staying up-right only by a thin pole. Perhaps he too, was going somewhere he was obliged to go, not somewhere he desired. There was so little aspiration on this train, in this morning; so little light. It was as if it were taking each and every passenger somewhere they dreaded. All Victoria knew was that the dread was seeping into her like the morning mist its self. But there was one woman, a woman of about fifty who stuck in her mind as clear as bark on a tree; a woman who so obviously had a mental condition as she murmured to herself and crossed her eyes. “That could have been me, it could have so easily been me and my life.” Victoria thought and knew. Such captivating memories that were a risk, this risk must be forgotten, so she averted her eyes and shed a sympathetic tear. Such a morning, what an ordinary morning.
witcheslair witcheslair
18-21, F
May 20, 2012