|Subject:||What do you think of my prologue so far? (more)|
|Author:||trepak (Authenticated as trepak)|
|Date:||January 6, 2013 at 10:40:45 AM|
"God, it’s cold.” Doctor Michael Davies muttered, cupping his hand around the end of the cigarette as he lit it. Snow came down, silently blanketing the earth, turning it white and sparkling.
“You can say that again.” agreed Doctor Greg Moore. A minute twitch in Davies’ face tipped him off, and Moore flicked his eyes sharply in his direction. “That doesn’t mean you should.”
“I wasn’t going to.” Davies snapped, quietly and defensively. He looked out on the skyline, which sharply contrasted with the darkness of the night sky, watching the lights reflect onto the icy waters of the Ohio. He took a long, desperate drag, determined to rid himself of the nervousness that had haunted him since that frantic phone call.
He knew that his nervousness was silly, almost frivolous. Scientifically, the whole plan was flawless. Davies had caught on, however, to the vast unpredictability of the human body. Butterflies he was determined to keep covert fluttered in his stomach, and every scary possibility ran marathons through his head. Every thought made him nauseous. He exhaled sharply.
Moore was a bit more optimistic—there was no way in hell that they could fail. This would be the first child of four born; the guinea pig. They had done all of the research, and common sense dictated their success. He shivered on the concrete patio outside of the hospital under the dim yellow lights, and coughed at the thin line of smoke released from Davies’ lips.
Suddenly, the automatic doors slid open loudly and Davies and Moore turned in unison to observe the intruder. A pale-faced, exhausted-looking Doctor Joseph Wade hurried out, his lab coat fluttering behind him. “You two… You need to come see this.” He told them, breathing heavily.
Davies threw down his cigarette and extinguished it with his foot, and pushed past his colleagues, who followed behind him, and rushed inside. He approached the receptionist’s small wooden desk. “What room is Emma Cohen in?” he demanded. His face was flushed with worry, and his voice was laced with impatience.
“I’ll look that up right away for you, sir,” the receptionist, top heavy with a large, hooked nose and wildly curly hair, replied. She slowly typed the name into the computer, causing Davies to tap his foot. He didn’t have time for this; he had poured his whole life into the experiment and needed to know if it was shattering. “Room four-oh-five.”
“Thank you.” Davies was almost curt. He aggressively broke through the traffic of the hospital’s waiting room and pushed the elevator’s “up” button as hard as he could, as if his anger would make it arrive faster.
His coworkers approached him from behind, Wade placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Just calm down, Davies, alright?” Moore glared at Wade; it was like telling somebody that their grandmother had been killed in a car accident and then trying to tell them to stop crying.
The elevator finally came after what seemed to be an eternity for Davies, who could no longer look them in the eyes. An elderly woman with a cane, assisted by a middle-aged man, walked out slowly, talking quietly to each other. Davies leaned up against the wall adjacent to the elevator.
This message was edited by the author on January 6, 2013 at 11:20:25 AM
|Messages in this thread:|
|Home : Boards : The Writing Room||
Copyright © |