Story cover for Verbatim by coquillagetoile
Verbatim
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    LECTURAS 6
  • WpVote
    Votos 2
  • WpPart
    Partes 1
  • WpHistory
    Hora <5 mins
  • WpView
    LECTURAS 6
  • WpVote
    Votos 2
  • WpPart
    Partes 1
  • WpHistory
    Hora <5 mins
Continúa, Has publicado abr 06, 2023
La sonnerie retentit une première fois.

À travers les vitres de la cabine, le noir complet. Je distingue à peine Baptiste qui m'attend, adossé à sa fidèle Ford Torino noire.

La sonnerie retentit une deuxième fois.

Je m'impatiente, et tire une grosse taffe sur la cigarette qui se consume entre mon index et mon majeur.

Le sonnerie retentit une troisième fois. Putain de merde il va décrocher oui ?

Un petit clic se fait entendre et je me tiens droite, me mordant la lèvre, anxieuse à l'idée de la réponse que j'attendais tant.

Une voix mielleuse brise alors le silence qui m'entourait jusqu'à maintenant,

"Numéro surtaxé".
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A few months ago, I bought a mug with gold gilt. On sale. Not a gift either nor because of an occasion to remember by it. Just plain, pretty mug for 15PLN. I drank my coffee from it since. I spat loose tea leaves into it. It never felt particularly significant. An ordinary object. Only when I lost it, I realised its true value. I sat comfortably at my desk one evening. Looking at my phone, I reached to take my song-text notebook. Trivial situation. My clumsy fingers were unable to avoid the mug. They allowed it to topple over, to slip from the desktop. Even though I did not see the split-second occurrence, I felt the pressure of unease. My head painted the trajectory of the fall on its own, the shattering, spillage. The loss. For a millisecond I still had hope, that I would be able to catch the mug, that I would be able to avoid what was about to happen. But I knew I was headed for failure. I don't have any superpowers. I only scalded my fingers. I looked at the mug's new shape for a long while, at the shattered pieces. At the spilling liquid. Our adventure came to an end. Irrevocably. I won't be drinking coffee from it anymore, nor spit tea leaves into it. Well. I shouldn't be sad, it was just a regular mug, just like thousands of others. I grew to like it, it kept me company throughout hundreds of warm drinks. I lost it. I hate this feeling the most. In the moment when I am losing something, I stop in my tracks, I hold my breath. It is always a very intense moment. A short one, but one that gives me the tight unpleasant feeling in my stomach. The feeling of loss is always accompanied by hope. Silly and naïve. Making me believe so strongly, that I can make it. That I will still be able to catch the mug mid-flight. When the feeling is entering the body, crawling into me I realise, how important it was to me. Whether it's Nivan or a stupid mug with gold gilt.
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Irrevocable impossible to change or reverse. (𝑪𝒂𝒊𝒖𝒔 𝑽𝒐𝒍𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒊 𝒙 𝑨𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒂 𝑺𝒘𝒂𝒏) This story is written in third person.