|The Orange Room
Author: GloriousVintageandOrange PM
A one-shot dribble about a post "orange" Alex and his love for his cruel new government job and his mental instability . Rated T for allusions to bodily functions and eyeing of body parts. UPDATED 5/20/2013 We are entering the end-game of this fic. Hope you're tuning in!Rated: Fiction T - English - Drama/Suspense - Alex - Chapters: 20 - Words: 38,228 - Reviews: 27 - Favs: 7 - Follows: 2 - Updated: 05-20-13 - Published: 09-29-10 - id: 6361030
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
The Orange Room
Upon entering an old building upon the grounds of some sort of secondary school, a familiar tiny figure creeped along the corridors and terraces of its insides. Stepping so lightly, so charmingly gleeful. The azure humors he bore darted back and forth, sizing up this place. The lights were on the fritz: making his steps looks super-humanly quick. He looked so unthreatening and perhaps even touch angelic. No one passing him in these walls would ever determine his past, his unspeakable deeds, or his game of metaphoric chess with the government. His government was compulsive, not wanting any messes on their clean, woven white carpet of a state. This tiny- former child, now Man often soiled their carpets with the spilling of blood and bodily fluids all over it. They tried to clean the mess but that just made it bigger and more foul smelling. They had to hire a professional to get the stains out. They had to treat the stain maker as if he had done no wrong and even reward him for accepting a bargain so that the government's carpet would never been stained again ( at least where company could see it).
This was his official title. He, which is being Alex.
Alex enjoyed his title. "Whip". He basically served as a disciplinary officer that was legally allowed to use force on minors that were getting involved in risky activities. The government heads thought this was an appropriate job for him, seeing as he knew the spots to engage in these activities. He had followed a rather homely and rude young female into this secondary school. He almost had her in a pair of cuffs and ready to send into the very bowels of the beast that he was hurled into not too long ago. This ugly thing was slippery; she would have to be a special case of excessive force. Just as he thought he was back on her trail, something wonderful took the grimace off of his muzzle.
Alex's ears were bombarded with a familiar tune. He knew this, because he knows all of lovely- lovely Ludwig Van's pieces. He muttered to himself, as if he were speaking to his brain, to let it know what it was they were hearing.
"Moonlight Sonata…third movement…"
The annoying soomka that deserved some discipline had to wait, he had to know who was playing this, and he had to know it right then!
His pacing up the rubber lined linoleum stairs were almost in rhythm with the piano's notes. He'd not paid any mind at all that he had bumped into several people, causing them to fall down the stairs, like some sort of sundries that are unimportant to a child that was searching for the sweets. He finally reached the building's practice floor, the hall was lined with them, tiny rooms of pianos for the music students to practice in. Each door painted a different loud color. He spied several chairs outside of these rooms. He assumed that they were for those waiting in line to play next, but they were never used for that, not ever.
He followed the echoing until it became a crystal pure sound in his ears, and he found it odd, how he couldn't open this orange painted door in front of him. This door leads to the player behind the sound.
Was it because he knew it would mean that the player would have to cease, and end the movement before it was over? Or did he feel that the person playing wouldn't even be there, that all of this was in his head. The latter could not be true, No, never!
He had been having quite the talking's with Mr. Deltoid, the version he knew when he was younger. He lies in his king-sized bed at night, just conversating away with him. His parents are no longer in his dwelling with him (thanks to the carpet cleaners), so he talks as long as he pleases.
"Naw' it wasn't that bad today. Had a few brattys, but it was their first offense so I just gave em' a horrorshow of a flogging. I dare say they won't be on my beat ever again."
"Did you tell them about you, Little Alex? Tell them about the wonderful things you could make them see, yes?"
"No, sir. I can't do that any longer. Got in a grandiose amount of troublin'. Made the malchicks take a britva to their yarbles, they said."
"You are mad, Little Alex, yes? You know I'm not really here, but you act like I am. That sounds quite mad to me."
"You're only mad if you don't acknowledge it, I acknowledge you, and I know you're not here, but you are. We're insane when we stop listening to each other."
Back to the orange door, now.
The sound has stopped. He swings the door open. Its orange hues looking like dimmed embers gasping for oxygen. He stepped back a bit at what he came upon.
A female, quite different from the one he was supposed to be tailing. She sat in front of a grand and lavish piano.
She turned around so quick; it was hard to look at a tiny thing like this move so quickly. If she had slid off of the slick piano-bench's wood finish he would have taken full advantage of her being on the ground.
They merely just stood there, staring, analyzing, observing. He gripped the handle on the door, ready to shut it and lock it, if the non-sickness enduceing desire came upon him.
"That was you, playing that, yes?"
She did not remove her sunglasses, or her coat. He found this rude.
"Yes, it was. I wasn't disturbing you, was I? I had heard they keep these up here. It's been so long since I played. I had to, it's a need now. I know that's hard to understand."
A wide grin came upon his fleshy cherub visage.
"I understand, like breathing. I've had needs, still do. I don't get to indulge as much as when I was a schoolboy. The composer of your piece there, is one of 'em"
She stood, not liking the feeling she was sensing from this one. He wasn't erratic, like all the other college boys she knew. Perhaps he wasn't in college, but then why was he even here?
He was so...frozen, so calm, too calm. As she looked into his unmoving, unfeeling eyes, she could feel him thinking about her. She felt imaginary arms feeling her all over, like phantom limbs that phased out of his eyes. She didn't know what manner he was thinking about her, and she had no desire to. She grabbed her white shoulder-purse and started for the doorway he was blocking. She met him.
The silence again, the phantom arms had themselves wrapped around her twice, not letting her budge. Her hands shook slightly, like one after a near-hit car accident ; the thought of it still racing through you the very feeling of the moment that could have changed everything still attaching itself to you. She took a light breath and nervously opened her rosebud mouth to speak.
"Excuse me, please."
She asked him, politely. She was a good person. She had a soul, and no sin from what he could decipher, but he would have to examine her much closer if he were to be sure of that. This little femme intrigued him, like a pet would intrigue its master.
She shifted out of the orange room and the sensation she felt, sent her mind into an absolute panic.
The male was gripping her wrist, preventing her from moving any further.
"You've left your grocery bag, Little Sister."
A cool wash of relief came over her and she went back in to get it. Quickly getting back out of the room before he could block her again.
"Oh, I suppose I'm just a little shagged from today. I've got this social my flat mate and I are hosting. Must be my sub-conscious creeping up on me."
A brow would rise. The male was eyeing her turquoise stocking coated legs and how much they looked like a gravity dismissing waterfall, in their fluid motions. He quickly darted back up to her face, he wanted to see her eyes, and he wondered what color they were. Those sunglasses would be flicked off quickly if he could restrain her somehow.
He queried to her.
"You don't want to go?"
He spoke like some sort of authority figure, like a father or a guardian uncle. Which sent one drop of shiver down her spine, her cheeks tinted a small hue of pink at this thought. She prayed he wouldn't see her reaction to such a simple question.
She replied with a cold, dead-pan retort.
"No, I hate things that haven't a point."
She spoke while she was backing away from him. She stopped when he subtly stepped one foot forward, as if he had stepped on some sort of button that switched her legs into the off position. She had a perfect look for a victim on her face. She did not hide her feelings. He enjoyed that very much.
She had hesitation, very pregnant.
"I'll be going now, Alex. If that's alright."
"Good- speed, Gypsy."
Author's Notes :
In my mind Gypsy looked something like a young Goldie Hawn. Very Nymph-ish , and slight.