Never Ending

~6~

"SHUTDOWN NASA!" A gruff man standing at the forefront shouts through a megaphone. The chant gets so loud, I'd wager tables all the way in Brooklyn are shaking from the vibrations. With the commotion that ensues, I see a couple of news vans pull into park to get the scoop and several NYPD cars pull up.

The security unit manning the perimeter of the Estate hasten to seal off the building lest any of the 'high class' guests get hurt. I am taken along with the snobby diplomats here. I polish off the last of my drink and leave the glass at the bar.

Without even thinking about it, I find myself heading upstairs to get a better look at whatever is going on. I recall one of the windows in August's office has a clear shot of the gate and the farms beyond. But it is only once in three blue moons that his office is open, let alone empty. I try the door anyway, and to my utter surprise, it gives.

I walk in without hesitation. From my elevated angle I can see that there are roughly a hundred-fifty or two hundred people outside the gate. I see cops in uniform walking through them trying to convince them to head home and stop all the commotion but no one bats an eye at them. Rather the chants get louder and more aggressive.

All of a sudden something clicks in my mind. I pull out my phone and type in 'shutdown NASA'. Millions of results pop up. I open the nearest article. It turns out the protests started in lieu of the Loretta 1009 news. Many people sold their houses, property, cars to gain momentary liquidity to use on that last day. To me those seem like stupid decisions to make, but humans aren't known for making the best decisions amirite? Others apparently looted shops, robbed banks in broad daylight and they are now about to face prison sentences they had never before imagined.

I turn off my phone impassively. Sure, these people are in a dilemma that NASA has a part in, but they also made the conscious decision to do whatever they did. A voice in my head sing-songs, "like sleeping with Carter?" Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

I turn to leave before August finds me here. On my way out, an open file on his desk draws my eyes. It's not the important stamp engraved on it, but the way it's ridges seems creased like he has touched it one too many times. I get close enough to see a name I thought I would never see written more than three times on that document. Maria Von Madris, my mother.

I pick it up hastily and read through my expression getting saltier by the minute. He won't miss this one if I take it. I close the file and start looking for any other related documents but I come up short. I fold it up nicely and in one fluid motion stash it in my purse.

I walk out of the room and go to the bathroom at the end of the hallway. Inside, I stand at the mirror for a minute, enough time for someone to pee, then flush the toilet and let the water run for a moment before I exit the bathroom and join the stream of restless guests downstairs.

It takes thirty minutes before the police disperse the crowd, in which time I reluctantly dance with my father and engage in mindless chatter to keep the fear of getting caught at bay, and then I can go home. I release a huge sigh of relief when the limo that brought me passes the gate of the estate on its way out

I finally breathe easy when the door to my apartment closed behind me. I lay my purse on the kitchen counter and take a bottle of water out of the fridge. After downing half of the water, I look up and catch my reflection on the microwave door. I look too calm for someone who just stole a document that holds vital information about how my mom 'actually' died. I pick up my purse heading to my room.

I pass by the open living room door and reach my bedroom. I almost open the door but subconsciously I acknowledge, with trepidation, that something is off. I do a double take.