What Cynthia did now was highly predictable.
She didn't open the e-mail.
She didn't even turn on her laptop.
She didn't want some virus latching onto her laptop like a parasite and draining it's memory and life! No, her laptop was too precious. She treated it as if it was an unexploded mine, buried deep within the computer's components: unpredictable.
She supped her coffee and stared out the window. Suddenly she uncrossed her legs and went to stand on the balcony; she hardly ever did due to the high risk of spies.
The stench of tarmac, pollution, sweat and burnt toast greeted, and overwhelmed her. Out here she could think, admist the crashes, the bangs, the screeches, the shouts - she could think.
A dangerous occupation for some.
And then again dangerous not to think, that's how her parents died... or parent.
Grasping the metal rail she leaned over the edge and thought of Marc.
What HAD happened to him?!
It was almost as if he'd disappeared off the face of the earth.
Like her parents.
Oh shitty shitty hell: thought Cynthia.
YOU ARE READING
Working Progress
ActionA story about a girl whose life doesn't seem to give her any answers, and where life itself wants to control her. Needless to say she tries to rebel against it's plan for her.
