Sophie: A Fictional Narrative

“I don’t care,” she balked as Benny and Elliot as followed her running down the hallway to her front door. “I just want to go home, turn on my laptop to confirm the date. I don’t believe it!”

“Sophie Girl!” Elliot’s body cut her off. “I told you. This is the hardest part. Who gives a hoot about taste, gray parts; it’s time that matters. They gave us something at the hospital. It erases time. We’re experiments on time.”

“Shut up Elliot.” Benny yelled. As he slowly turned so did his tone. A tender kindness shined through his melancholy bulk as he calmly advised, “Sophie, let’s get you packed and go ask Simon. Okay? He can explain it. He said he can ease the loss of time at the loft.”

“Oh yeah, Stoney face is a product of this mess too, you know. He’s in it for something—and it’s more than being philanthropic with his lofty space. I say we hide out at my place. Hugh? My old lady, she’ll make it all golden.”

“I just want to know the date,” she said, jingling the correct key towards the lock.

“You got a love letter here.” Benny swiped the folded piece of notebook paper taped over the peep-hole and handed it to Sophie.

She felt a slightest grin lift her cheeks over the familiar turn of the lower curve of the letter S of her name.

Sophie – Please - Talk to me. Jacob.

The sickness in the center of her mind tried to encroach the memory of the image of a smiling Jacob in need of a haircut, yet, instead she recalled the moment the picture was snapped. She waited for the gush—it trickled, tickling on its way down her arm to drip off her gray fingers holding his note. The gush landed in her pocket; safe, from the sickness.

“Yep, it’s the boyfriend,” Elliot smirked. “He’s going to hate the rock hard abs of one Simon Archer.”

“He’s my fr...

... middle of paper ...

... slipping away from us, and there is not a damn thing we can do. For Pete’s sake, we are deluded enough to believe she has her soul in her pocket! So let your brother sue. I hope he flippen wins. Girl, you’re too sweet to have been hurt in the first place can cast into this senseless crap.”

“It’s not a death sentence,” Sophie softly repeated. And she repeated again, she notice that she wasn’t looking at her things filling her house, but she only noticed the dark shadows of her things, pulling away from the harsh hall light; the edges lost in darker hues of the room.

“Yes,” Elliot grinned. “That’s what soul-sickness really is; sentenced to the shiny side of death.”

There was a silence in the room; an odd dusty silence. Sophie shut her eyes, not minding the tear racing down her cheek, or how hard her heart pounded deep inside her chest, or that she didn’t feel either.