The Silent World: Emma and Chloe

   A burnt sienna sliver of light penetrated the slightly open blinds of the window located directly next to the messy bed. The aqua colored sheets were entirely dislodged from their place, the blanket nearly dropping to the floor, and the edge of it being held onto only by the body of the woman lying disorientingly on the bed. Her head was placed on a pillow to the left — a magenta sheet covering it — while her legs reached the opposite side of the bed, that part being undressed due to the violent sleeping habits that she portrayed.
   Emma was already awake and sipping her morning, milk-filled coffee when the loud buzz of the alarm clock punctured the atmosphere around both of them. She did not react to it, though, as her mind was greatly focused on the blank screen of her laptop, her fingers resting on the smooth keys of it.
   The plot of the story was already completed, and all she had to do was dislodge the words that were stuck within her, to cover the screen with them in an elaborate fashion, but she had no courage to. The words that formulated in her thoughts were not good enough to be placed on the screen, as she thought to herself, second guessing the very nature of the plot, seeking out all the banal, cursed cliches from it. And as she did that, the sound of the alarm still attacked the air with ugliness, causing Chloe to groan out loud as she rubbed her head against her pillow, persisting to cover her ears. It was her, the black hair contrasted by the roots that were painted blue, who stirred on top of the rough, tattered mattress, reaching for the clock and hitting it violently.
   She then sat up on the bed, rubbing her eyes, and crossing her pale legs. And, while gazing at Emma, she asked, with a hint of tiredness still dripping from her voice, “and how long have you’ve been awake?”
   “I’ve been awake since six.” She said that while still concentrating on the screen, the emptiness making her anxious at every moment.
   “And how much have you written today?”
   “Not a single word.”
   “I see.” Chloe got up from the bed and stretched her arms upward until she heard a slight crack, the rubbing of the bones in her back greatly pleasing her. The athletic figure that characterized her was greatly maintained through strenuous exercise — she went to the gym at least three times a week. The white tank-top hugged her tightly, the straps of it, aligned with silver particles, placing themselves on her shoulders. She wore navy blue panties, the waist of them gracefully resting on her curves — V-shaped due to the amount of running that she completed weekly.
   “Don’t you think that you should take a break?” Chloe asked walking up to Emma, and laying her hands on her bony shoulders. She then wrapped her arms around her and said,    “Fresh eyes can do a lot for a piece I’ve heard.”
   “If that was true, then I would be finished already.”
   “Come on, let’s go for a run.”
   “But…” At that utterance, Chloe closed the screen of the laptop, the soft thud slightly echoing throughout the small apartment. The white walls were completely bare — there were no instances of posters or other decorations on them. The bedroom only situated the bed and a wooden table for the laptop, assortments of light and dark browns covering the table. Just outside of the bedroom, to the right, there stood a bathroom — the only one in the whole apartment, endowed with a shower enveloped with a clear panel, and a sink that had a long and silver handle that protruded from it. When Emma walked up to it, twisting it from its resting position, the cold water spewed angrily at first, splashing the contents out onto the floor. As an impulse, she twisted the handle again, turning the water off and noticing the catastrophe that she had just caused, cursing at herself for not remembering the busted nature of the faucet.
   “Nice job. Now you gotta clean that up when we get back.” Chloe now wore a gray sports top with pink linings that traced the bottom of it. Her black shorts reached up to her thighs, her skin showing stretch marks that she did not care for, as, to her, it signified the progress of her healthy lifestyle.
   “Shut up.” Emma said as she walked past her, crossing the barren living room, and opening the door to the lobby of the complex. The white walls had returned, the only thing that covered them being the cheaply-made clock that constantly had both of its hands on the 12 — the small, red seconds hand jittering at the number four. The couches were bound with leather, the slick black not at all comfortable, eliciting a feeling of sitting on plastic wrap that dissuaded the two girls from ever touching it. A glass door was located on the other side of the lobby, and as Emma opened it, the intense heat of the outside world attacked her, making her shut the door almost as immediately.
   “There’s no way I’m running in that heat.”
   “Don’t be such a pussy.”

   The sky was cloudless, and a light blue covered it entirely, the sun penetrating the Earth with immense vivacity. A wide array of cars were seen on the road, honking at the immovability of the traffic, the persons inside of them yelling angrily at the procession in front of them. The heat, as well as the smoke emanating from the cars, made the air difficult to breathe thru, the effort needing to run greatly increasing for Emma. Perspiration fell from both of their foreheads, their skins turning red due to the blaring sun that beamed down on them. Emma felt her legs starting to hurt, the pain slightly pinching her achilles tendon and flowing upward to her thighs, arousing discomfort as she ran.
   She glanced over at Chloe, who was running slightly ahead of her, her short hair flowing just above her shoulders. The ease that she ran with became paramount in her eyes, the gazelle-like strides hitting the ground with immense speed, her feet forcing themselves off the cracked concrete with great power. Consistently, Chloe ran at that pace, compelling Emma to run faster, and, after 30 minutes of running, Emma braced herself for the five minute sprint, and it started when Chloe increased her pace.
   The pain became more noticeable, as well as the heat (as it seemed like to Emma). Her dark hair absorbed the sun’s rays at every passing second, and the sweat fell evermore, creating a patch on the collar of her top, and, as she felt, on her back. To Emma, it seemed as if the time had slowed to a snail-like procession, the beating seconds passing with less frequency. She clenched her teeth as the end approached, and when Chloe came to a halt, Emma stopped as well, putting her hands on her knees, curving her back so that the pain had a chance to vanish.
   “It’ll be easier to catch your breath if you stand up straight.” And, at that remark, Emma did as she was suggested, gasping for oxygen in the thickly veiled air.
   “Screw you,” she gasped, “and screw this goddamn pollution!”
   “That’s the reason why we walk everywhere,” Chloe said, beginning to move from her spot so that they could head back to the apartment. With reluctance, Emma followed her, as she realized that the hike back home would take up to an hour, and as she fostered the strength to walk that length, she looked up at her surroundings.  
   Around them, a wide assortment of stores were placed in the neighborhood, most of them containing at least some sort of alcohol, which a lot of persons tended to stay away from during the day in an attempt to abide by that rule of morality. The white glow from the sun imprinted itself among the entire city, compelling the people to stay inside for as long as they could. Muffled hummings of different air conditioning units flew in the air, the wind carrying them throughout the morning day. Some of the battered bricks of the buildings had spots of green, and likewise, most of the marble statues were enveloped with rust, the fountains of them turned off as a way of conserving water.
   “So why didn’t we take bus home? At least it would’ve been cooler.”
   “Because I like the outdoors way more.”
   “Then you shouldn’t be living in New York.”
   “But, my darling, you don’t want to live anywhere but New York. That’s what I get for being with a city girl.”
   Emma, at that statement, slightly pushed Chloe at the shoulder, causing her to become unbalanced for just a moment before she regained her composure. Mockingly, she rubbed at her shoulder, conveying to Emma were the faux-pain was, and as she did so, she stuck her tongue out, and said, “It’s called sacrifices.”
   “Yes because I’m such a burden for you, right?”
   “Of course you are.”
   “So what does that make you for me?”
   “A blessing.”
   They both smiled at that sentiment, intertwining their hands together as they continued to walk home. A silence had now engulfed them as the traffic came to a complete halt, the cars that were sliding past them waiting patiently to move, the anger of the persons being contained only slightly. An air of smog now percolated from the atmosphere, indeed the culprit of it being the tail pipes of the vast cars that progressed slowly, if at all. The sun blared evermore as noon approached closer, tearing apart the small number of clouds that were seen on the sky, the amount of blue greatly increasing on it; the light pastel seemed to immerse with the sun, drawing in heat that was powerful enough to wreck anyone’s skin.
   “When is it gonna rain again?” Emma asked that while looking shortly at the sky, the rays of the sun causing her eyes to see some blobs of purple.
   “Not for a long while I think.”
   Emma gulped, and her scratchy, dry throat became known to her, the rough burden bothering her as she thirsted for water. A tiny wind hovered amongst the canvas covered with blue, carrying the humidity and hotness with it. An aroma of trash reached her nostrils, the mixture of fruits and leftovers decaying in the dirty air, dispersing the smell between them as they reached their building.
   She pulled at the glass door, the silver handle absorbing the heat as well, the warmth piercing her hand in the process. As they stepped inside, the cool air of the lobby embraced them, the wind from the air conditioning soothing both of them as they entered their apartment.
   Chloe went directly to the shower, and Emma to her laptop, staring intently at the screen, the blank page bothering her even after that run — she realized that she had no words that could describe the nuances of the plot she developed. The muffled sounds of Chloe made themselves present to her, the voice coming from the bathroom in a mechanical way — thanks to the reverb that bounced off the walls; the sound spoke in a hazy manner.  “Don’t think that you’ll be able to write all day. We’re going to the club tonight.”
   She knew that there was no use of disputing Chloe at that point, for when she sought for something, it was destined to happen, as made evident by the run. So Emma just sat there in silence, resting her skinny fingers on the black keys of the laptop, contemplating an opening for her next story, thinking of the imagery, the sounds, the characters, that would fit well in it. She was tempted to write the words — Once upon a time — in a hope of initiating something, an inspiration, a transitory moment, anything that would help the words flow onto the page. But, as she sat there, fixed in that spot, all that came to her was the darkness that encompassed her mind, forcing her back into the labyrinth of herself, making her forget her thirst, her need for water at that moment. She didn’t even hear the hectic honkings that were prevalent in the world beyond her window, as the cars, moving in the opposite direction of herself, were seeking to reach their destination quickly. The only thing that came to her mind was the darkness that forbade her from writing, and no matter how hard she tried, nothing could have defeated it.
   She placed her hands on the back of her head, and leaned back on her chair, the rough plastic making her head hurt, and forcing her to get up from her seat. Walking to the kitchen, a waft of lavender hit the apartment ceiling, its origin being from the bathroom. Surely, Chloe was using her favorite body wash and shampoo, persisting on keeping the smell in tact throughout the whole day. She opened the fridge, and reached for the clear jug of water, drinking it straight from the pitcher, as her progressively drying throat bothered her immensely, the water helping it for only a moment.

   Emma was standing near the bar, the granite countertop reflecting the multitudes of colors that came from the rapid lights circling the dance floor. Her blue dress, darker in the dim lights, flowed slightly from the bottom, the wind from the air conditioning encircling the club. A wide array of persons — all different, she observed — were crowding the dance floor, moving in disorganized patterns with their partners, a hint of perspiration oozing from each of their faces.
   A girl was dancing also, her short, almond hair bouncing up and down. Her printed leggings, the crimson pattern getting lost in the crowd, was fused tightly with her body, the baby-pink shirt reaching just beyond her ass.
   She was dancing with a stranger, she thought, his black, crew-cut hair contrasting his pale face. A couple of wrinkles were already seen on his countenance; his lips moved slowly as he whispered in his new friend's ear. The remark was quite hilarious, she perceived, as both of the dancers laughed heartily at it, making her think of the supposed words that were uttered.
   You’re a great dancer.
   Stop lying.
   No I’m serious; I’ve never seen anyone so great at jumping up and down before.
   Shut up.
   Once that conversation entered her mind, a whole new story made itself visible to her. The two strangers, rather than being nearly the presumed age of twenty-three years old, were eighteen, dancing at their highschool prom. She imagined the guy’s suit — navy-blue, contrasted by a cerulean shirt, a patterned tie gracefully falling from his neck. He came alone, she reckoned, as he was too shy to ask a girl to be his date, forcing him to dance alone.
   At that moment, the girl would see him, grabbing his arm so that he would come closer to her. Her long, black dress, endowed with gold particles all around, would be floating on the ground with each step, and he would move with her also. The synchronization would be mixed with intimacy as they slowly fell in love with each other, both of their hazel-eyes gazing into each others. She knew that the world around them would disappear; they would be the only two people on the floor, dancing for what would seem like an eternity.
   But what about the ending? That thought made her re-enter the club, the dancing now more fast-pace, matching the intense thumping of the bass drum. She knew that she had get out of here, so that the story wouldn’t be lost forever, and as she began to move from her spot towards the exit, Chloe, who seemingly came out of nowhere, grabbed her arm.
   “What are you doing?” she asked, some of her blue strands drooping on her face.
   Hesitant for a moment, she replied, in a low voice, “I have an idea for a story.”
   “What? You have learn how to talk louder. I can’t hear you over the music.” She positioned her ear so that it was near Emma’s lips.
   “I have an idea for a story. I have to get home before I lose it.”
   “A story?! Emma, I said no writing tonight.”
   “I know you did, but I feel like this story has great potential. You don’t have to leave, I can walk home alone.” As she said that, Chloe let go of her arm, and finally free, Emma walked to the metallic door, pushing it forcefully so that she could escape from the club.
   The dark, outside world was hot, the wind graciously cooling her off at sparing moments. It blowed with little ferocity — no sound could be heard from it. The only sounds that entered her ears were from the New York traffic, bustling even in the late night. Horns were blaring throughout the sky, piercing the air with dissonance. Lights from the stores around her hugged the atmosphere, a different hue being placed on almost every corner, lighting her pathway.
   She walked past a strip club, its neon lights blasting her eyes, making her squint. Her pace slowed also, for she heard a voice calling for her from behind.
   “You forgot your jacket,” Chloe said.
   “You should’ve left it there. I don’t know why I brought it, this fucking heat doesn’t go anywhere. It just stays.”
   “Hey, what are you gonna do about it? A lot of people seem to enjoy it, more opportunities for people to go to strip clubs.” She said that as she gazed behind Emma, the neon sign still shining brightly, the line reaching just out of the door. They both walked past the building to approach a bus stop.
   The glass that covered the metallic bench that they sat on seemed to direct the intensity of the heat at them, causing small gleams of sweat to appear on their foreheads. The sign that was propped near the miniature glass abode was completely white, the black numbers — 194 — being the only thing covering them.
   Emma leaned forward on the bench, her hands closed together as she said, “this heat makes me feel gross.” Chloe’s nonchalant posture was still intact — her arm placed on the upper curve of the bench, the other hand resting on her knee.
   “Don’t whine, honey. It’s unattractive.” A smile grew on her face, becoming increasingly more prominent when the bus came. And as they entered, they both showed the driver — a man in his fifties, his gray hair balding — their laminated cards that they paid for once a month. They sat down near the front of the bus — Emma by the window, and Chloe by the aisle.
   Besides them, only three other people were on the bus, and all of them were pretty young. One girl, who Emma thought was in her mid-twenties, wore denim shorts that came up to her thighs, her black tank-top nursing her fragile figure. It matched her hair — long and black, gleaming from the lights of the bus. Emma then turned her head slightly to the left, coming across another girl. She wore a cyan colored pair of leggings, fitting her built frame precisely. Her yellow shirt accentuated her arms, her curly hair barely dropping down on the top of the shirt.
   She wondered — wondered about the strangeness of the sight, the strangeness of the moment. For, even though it was nearly eleven O’clock, New York busses were almost always packed; people were always seen fighting for seats, clamoring and bickering about the right to sit down. Usually, Emma got annoyed of it, as she would always place her earphones in as soon as she got on the bus. But tonight, she thought about the difference, and thought about what could have prompted it.
   She looked out of the window, trying to pierce through the haziness, the fingerprints that covered it. Headlights were all that she saw, the bright, red lights, progressing through the opposite direction of the bus. They passed by with great speed, the muffled sounds of the cars being audible through the glass, the shrieking and burning of the tires penetrating the hot air.
   “Do you know what’s going on?” Emma asked, her eyebrows bunched up together, a white light covering her as she heard a ringing that grew in intensity. The bus was flipped on its top, the white and blue patterns becoming indistinguishable due to the ash that violently grabbed at the street, laying itself on the surroundings. A flame whooshed from the bus, the black top of it reaching the dark sky, the little light of the waning crescent barely showing it. The assortment of hues of the city placed themselves on the conflagration, giving off a dark maroon that danced in the air, the unpleasant smell of charcoal filling it, the sounds of screaming being heard by the crowd that sought to sprint away from the wreckage. Curiosity was replaced with panic, and knowing was replaced with fear — a stagnant form of it, trying so hard to stay present throughout all times.  

   One moment can change everything; the currents of the present can be altered so much that, when a person wants to look back upon it, it is unrecognizable to him. The fire that enveloped the bus came from the C-4s strapped to the engine, setting off a chain reaction of explosions that took over the other cars halted in the New York traffic.
   More beepings characterized the sky, protruding it with energy that only matched the shrieks and the alarm. Paramedics were called on first, but it was the police who arrived promptly, their sirens blaring while they continued to traverse through the vehement traffic. The unrecognizable persons, blown entirely to bits, were scattered on the asphalt, the body of the bus torn off as well. All of the stores closed down, shutting off their lights in the process, a newfound darkness entering the city, letting the fire burn a bright red before water was thrown on it.
   The national guard was called in, and even the mayor came to the wreck, a guard of men dressed in dark blue uniforms surrounding him. His rhetoric was carefully recorded and broadcasted on the local news station, while behind, a gallimaufry of officials tried to appease the situation. And their efforts continued on through the rising sun, an orange glow shining on where the couple sat — forgotten by achievement, but not by name. They were catalysts for the silent world.