Famous (The Soul of the World Book 1) by David Skato (best e books to read .TXT) 📕

door slowly starts to close, she is startled by a dark figure lurking just outside of the glass doors. The elevator doors finally shut, and it starts to move. Visibly shaken as the lights flicker with each thunderclap, Rochelle clutches tightly to the ID.  The elevator finally arrives at floor “18,” and the doors open. Rochelle runs out and down the hall to another door labeled “social engineering,” where she runs in and closes it behind her.

A line of computer screensavers dimly lights the room in an assortment of flashing colors. The large window gives way to a great view of the downtown skyline. The sun's light is now visible on the horizon, but the darkness is not quite ready to subside.

She quickly runs to the first desk and flips it over, sending a computer and various other contents crashing to the floor. She pushes it against the door dropping the ID in the process. She reaches for the ID, but her foot mistakenly kicks it under another desk. She drops to all fours and reaches for it stretching as far as she possibly can but only tapping it with her middle finger causing it to go further under the desk.

“BANG!”

A loud sound from the door startles Rochelle sending her retreating backward, still on all fours. She quickly jumps up, flips over another desk, and pushes it to the door, flipping it once more on top of the previous desk. She then grabs another, and another, and another, repeating the process until she is exhausted. She breathes with her eyes closed for a moment, opening them to a mountain of desks, completely blocking the door. She feels achieved and relieved, but only for a short time.

“BANG!”

She runs to the back of the room, takes a sheet of paper from one of the desks, and starts writing.

“BANG!”

She looks at the door, terrified. The banging continues now louder, more aggressive, and more frequent.

Rochelle rushes across the room, pushes a chair towards the window, and peers down at the street below.

She takes a few steps back, takes a breath, picks up the chair, and slams it into the window. To her dismay, the chair bounces off.  She picks the chair up once more and bangs it against the window again. It leaves only a scratch. She tries it again and again, and again until the window shatters. Wind rushes in, whipping her hair and dress as well as causing the paper to fly towards the door. She reaches to grab it, but she’s just a hair too late.

The sky finally breaks, and the rain starts to pour inside of the broken window soaking Rochelle to the point that her hair and red dress stick to her body as if it was a second skin.

A smoke-like substance starts to seep under the door and through the blockade. This thick substance inks its way towards the middle of the room, leaving a nasty black residue in its trail. What looks like the last of it finally makes it to the now pool of nasty, inky, blob-like puddle, and the substance begins to rise and take shape.  Rochelle backs to the window so frightened that even screaming is impossible. She starts to cry; the pouring rain blends perfectly with her tears, but nothing could hide the sadness on her face. Slowly the fear begins to dissipate, and her face normalizes. Until now, this had just been a plan. She dreamt of how she would do it and why but never imagined what she would feel. This was hard. She had so much to live for but a better reason to die.

She looks down eighteen stories below, then looks up at the sky above.  The rain pours into her eyes as she takes another breath and closes them.  She turns towards the substance that is now in the shape of a man. She opens her eyes to get a last look at the being.

“You’re too late,” she whispers.

Spreading her arms wide, as if to catch the wind, she let her body fall backward out of the window. As she fell, she hoped her family forgave her, she hoped the world forgave her, she hoped - Her body slammed into a brand-new red Camaro, sending glass and debris in all directions and setting off the alarms of multiple surrounding cars.

The shadowy figure stood in the window and peered down at the lifeless body. Her eyes open in death, stared back at it as to say, “fuck you.”

CHAPTER II

The city was alive more than ever with the bustling of early morning commuters hurrying off to work or school, and some just merely getting their coffee fix before a long day of doing absolutely nothing. Though not “The Square,” bright billboards lined the buildings advertising everything from teeth whitening to an app that pays you to breathe. The sun was brilliant even though just barely rising from the east and the smell of wet garbage gave the city what the natives call “culture.” Small puddles remained, reminding those who cared of the storm that raged through the early morning. Most people didn’t and chalked it up as a simple inconvenience that delayed their night of partying.

Rochelle's body was still embedded in the smashed Camaro's top but now covered by a white sheet to protect her from bystanders wanting to snap pictures for their Quest feed. The Camaro’s owner, a Gen-Z with almost milk-white hair, combat boots, and a button-up shirt that was only buttoned to his navel, was now on the scene making a fuss about who was going to pay for the damages of his car.

Police officers milled about engaging in inside conversations. No one seemed overly concerned with the deceased young lady. There was a little chatter that the woman might be Rochelle, but no one knew for sure. Besides those trying to be instafamous and snap selfies, most pedestrians didn’t seem bothered by the body under the white sheet, the police tape, or glass and debris