This was never meant to be part of this drabble but I thought it would fit in with the other little insights in Danis undercover op. Also this story doesn't seem to let me go. So here it is. Enjoy, let me no if you do (and if you don't) reviews are as always very much appreciated.
CCAA (who just found out that she finds it way harder to translate from their mother language to another than write in another language from the beginning. Anyone else who made this experience? *confused*)
The small shabby room was pure Chaos.
The light falling in between the curtains was dim and yet it lightened the scene ruthlessly:
A worn down carpet the colour of dust with the indefinable stains beneath the small table upon which there was a mess of empty bottles, greasy burger boxes, some suspicious small white packages, syringes, spoons.
A room like there many in certain parts of LA. The parts where drug lords were at the helm. Where they away from tourist attractions and picturesque palm trees controlled basically everything.
The room seemed to conform to every cliché any movie director in Hollywood could have dreamed of. Even the young woman cowering at the end of the saggy bed would have been right on top of every casting list. She could have been Latin American, looked like she hadn't slept properly in days or as if she had just woken up – after a short a very night.
Most of her long dark hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail while many strands of the chocolate coloured mass had escaped the rubber band.
Her clothes, a combination of boxers and an unbuttoned shirt showing of her bra could have been pretty sexy if the clothes wouldn't look like she had slept in them for a week. Her hopelessly smeared mascara was only adding to that picture.
Her whole figure appeared a bit unhealthy like her last few meals had contained much more permille than calories.
Her bloodshot eyes moved restlessly over her surroundings, fogged by more than just alcohol.
Somewhere footsteps came closer.
The sound outside seemed to wake the young woman from her stupor, at least her eyes seemed to focus a bit more on what they saw before them.
"Raúl?" Her voice was barely more than a hoarse whisper.
Searching she turned her head, not really grasping what she saw, trying to put together what her senses told her.
The vague memory of a gunshot. The sight of blood. On the wall behind the bed, the pillow, the floor. The fact that Raúl didn't answer her, although he was right in front of her. He even seemed to look at her.
"Raúl!" Louder, urging, at the edge of panic as she slowly began to realize what was happening. She grabbed his arm, shook it, timid at first, than harder. But he didn't move. He just didn't move!
The steps outside appeared to came closer, weren't there voices as well?
Something prevented her from taking the gun out of Raúl's hand. Some almost buried instinct coming to the surface of her foggy consciousness, now holding her bloodstained fingers back which had moved halfway to the gun. As if to test whether the metal was still warm.
The sound of the door being kicked open made her jump and her head spin.