The Accident - Original Writing

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The Accident - Original Writing

I can hear the boisterous wind charging through the icy caverns of the

station. My polished, black leather shoes pad against the escalator

stairs, as I rub at the chafing collar of my shirt, aware of the

irritating dampness. Everything seems to be going against me. Morality

has a vice-like grip on my stiff shoulders, and it is beginning to

yank me back. Gripping the cold handle of my briefcase offers some

reassurance, but remembering the contents sends an ominous shiver up

my spine. They did not say the first job would be so hard.

The grime, embedded in the rugged tiles, adds to the dingy, depressing

surroundings. A crumpled crisp packet flits across the surface, as

another tube roars past. It is as if I have just entered the

minotaur's den, and luckily escaped the clutches of the savage beast.

I begin to walk more briskly, as an unpleasant stench wafts from the

nearby toilets. Have they never heard of such a thing as disinfectant

or cleaners? Inefficiency is a rapidly spreading disease, and it needs

a cure soon. Failure to succeed, especially in my line of work, has

inconceivable consequences.

The relative quiet is broken by the monotonous drone of the

loudspeaker dictating various platforms, and a raucous group of

youths. I glower at them as they began ridiculing a humble tramp who

is coughing vigorously, blatantly distressed. My moral arrow tells me

I should go and prevent this, however the objectives involved include

avoiding all human contact. The one on the left hand side, a stocky

teenager with a crew cut and a hideous earring, begins making

offensive gestures with his free hand, the oth...

... middle of paper ...

... enveloped the tube.

Muffled groans broke the silence. The sprucely dressed man with

polished hair flicked on his lighter, and activated his phone beam.

Beside him was a balding man, blood oozing from a deep gash in his

chest. The man with the lighter sat up abruptly, a concerned look on

his face. He hastily removed his jacket, and applied it to the wound,

in an attempt to prevent the blood loss. The balding man grunted,

croaking for assistance.

A creased picture caught the eye of the suavely dressed man. It was

beside the ravaged hand of the balding man. He frowned, recognising

the picture's familiarity. On the back, scribbled in red writing, was

the word target. Before acting, he reached for the weighty briefcase

that was crushing his foot. He began to click it open. The balding

man's left eye fluttered open.

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