Future by Daniel Sidhom
Lonely am I on the nights and days that conjure my remaining senses. My tears forever roll down my face, but I make no sound. I wander as lonely as a cloud, through the corridors of despair, thinking of you. It is as if being close to you was a crime, but now that I think of it, we are nothing more or less than what we choose to reveal. The blood moon weeps for me, as I think of the agony you left me. I noticed the storm in your eyes, the heaviness in your heart and the silence in your voice, yet you never let me in. And now that I think of it, immersed in solitude for eternity, you wouldn’t know me, nor the world in which I live today. The future of this Earth taught me no more than to love it with perverse affection. No judgement, no feelings, just a sense of desire to drown my sins. February 18th, 2060 I walked slowly into the building, my shoes clicking with every step of the way. My blonde long hair was combed neatly to the side and my moustache precisely curled. I took the elevator to the 74th floor, where my client was already patiently waiting for me. “Do come in”, I politely gestured to the man to come into my office. I sat at my desk and clicked the desk panel to reveal an online scanned document. I rotated it side-
ways so that my client could clearly see it. I glanced at him and patiently waited for him to finish thinking. He looked up apologetically, but I nodded, feeling his sadness. “Mr Gregorovich” I began hesitantly, “I was most fascinated with this piece of work. You tell me yourself you have experience from the past with this sense of isolation and rejection. Am I correct?” The man looked at me with his empty eyes, his mouth slightly apart twisted in some sort of discomfort. “This will be my last piece of work, yes, before I…”. His voice trailed off into the distance, as if recoiling from the poisonous experiences of his past. Once more he looked at me, his coldness cutting my heart. I reached to my left blazer pocket and took out a letter, still sealed, and handed it over to the man. “A letter of gratitude from my director”, I said. “I will begin editing your piece within two days. The publishing expenses will be all dealt with when I speak to the board, and as for the printing, I have contacted the Sentinel newspaper agency to make the arrangements.” The man smiled at me. “You have not changed one bit”, he said. “You’re still the most unemotional person I have ever met, even at twenty-two.”
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