Hover

Chapter 2

The man in the gray coat wasn't quite sure if he locked the door to the basement, though he checked it four times already. There was something unsatisfying about the way it didn't hold up tight enough when he turned it— this sort of bent assertion that didn't seem right at all.

One more time. He'll check it just this once and it'll be fine. A locked door was a locked door; it didn't just unlock itself. That would be absurd.

He turned back around once again, reaching for the golden globed knob at just the right degree, because if he were just five centimeters lower, he'd have to do it again, and what good was doing it again when all he wanted was for the damned door to be locked and feel locked.

He twisted the knob and— damn it, something was wrong. Everything about it. The emptiness docking itself into the channel of his spine just felt utterly off and broken.  His fist ached to smash the white wooden door. Oh, the satisfaction that would bring. But he couldn't— it would ruin everything.

One more time.

Two more centimeters higher— that was the problem. Just that little distance would fix it; it had to.

It sure did the trick. The sort of Euphoria it gave the man in the gray coat to finally feel the door locked, for those twenty minutes to amount to this felt like sweet honey kissing its way down his throat.

Now, he could get on with his day. He turned from the door, inhaling a calculated breath of air. As he lightly padded his way down the mahogany wooden floor, he leveled his eyes to the hanging wall art along the white wall of the hallway. They must be all even, all perfectly aligned. Anything off would bend the house in half and he wouldn't be able to sleep for two days if he caught any of the frames like that. He couldn't afford to lose his sleep— the door was enough to raise his blood pressure. Now, god-forbid the worthless $3,000 painting of splashed paint on a wounded canvas didn't exist properly in the place it should've.

What a nightmare.

There it was— that little bastard. Right beside the golden framed picture of his baby son, his beloved wife. The shiny gold of her frame was slightly tilted to the left and he felt as if the hallway was going to tilt and he'd go rolling down with it, tumbling down the wooden floors that lead right to the kitchen, and out the back glass windows he would go. To a world unknown— which was disgusting. All because this damned frame wasn't positioned right and the man in the gray coat had to squeeze his fists with great pressure, to feel his neatly trimmed nails bite into the palms of his hands. The sensation made him bounce on the balls of his feet.

How could this happen? 6:24 a.m. on the dot and his reality was already bent inside out and flipped upside down.

There was a specific calculation in his bones as he lifted his right hand to align the frame with the rest of the world, all the straight lines and angles came down to this twelve by ten frame.

Once it hit position, it was as if a key locked into place. The air seemed to make a ticking sound once it found its home and the man in the gray coat about strode down the hallway in an explosive satisfaction.

He sauntered into the kitchen, the morning sun glowing into the white cabinet set up. On his way to the back windows, he grabbed the newspaper off the dining table. His footsteps echoing through the empty home as the man stepped towards the windows that ran along the whole backside of his two story home. He glared out into the cloudless sky before he read the first page, looking out into the imperfection of nature and all it's wary messages. It was sort of crooked how the world made you feel sometimes; the emptiness it gave you. It was sad, really, to have to live in chains when there was so much potential to be had. But, what could a man do? There was work to be done.