The receptionist barely looked up, his smoky grey eyes darting across his shiny-coated tablet with an impatience that suggested a long overdue coffee break. She opened her mouth to demand answers, but the piercing fire in that glance dried all hint of saliva and her tongue and lips came to a full stop before they’d even begun. She pretended all was well, looking past the desk to the two enormous, mechanical counters on the whitewashed brick wall behind; the one on the left displaying numbers in red, the one on the right in blue. It appeared red was winning whatever endless game was being played. She’d just about worked out the exact ratio when he began to speak, his voice surprisingly familiar in intonation, pitch and accent. She thought to berate him for mocking her when she realised that the words were hers too; written in her diary after that misguided second bottle last night. But how? Her bewilderment dimmed until all she could sense was the cadence of damning insight… ‘Is it pride? Or lust perhaps? Whatever it is, it has driven my life as surely as the gravity of the sun drives the Earth and its moon. Is it balanced by a willingness to collect those with broken wings, to be the friend always ready to drop everything? To be the worker who never misses a deadline, who always volunteers to do more? A small, internal voice tells me that my supposed kindness and diligence are merely facets of my own particular brand of sin: being an overachieving, ambitious creature who ever strives because she knows not how to simply be. And why is this? There was a moment when I let it all go; accepted my place in life without rancour or envy, was content, happy even. The world had other plans for me, pushed me screaming into an abyss of fear, sorrow and bewilderment. When I broke for air, I could see the light ahead, and a new path. But, for me, new equals ‘challenge’, ‘succeed’, ‘win’. And so the cycle began again. Three times, life or the world or a God I don’t believe in has pushed me to be different. Three times I have been unable to learn. Do I regret it? Yes. And no. For who of us are able to remake our DNA and the unique experiences that make us us?’ A smile reached the receptionist’s eyes as he snapped closed the tablet’s metallic cover. He clicked his fingers and a tiny man materialised at her side, his body language screaming ‘eager to please’ despite the otherworldly flames forcing his feet to dance on the spot. ‘Follow your guide,’ the receptionist intoned with a solemn, resonant bass, his smile now a distant memory. The imp, for surely that was what he was, clasped her wrist, his fingers searing grooves into her skin. She pulled against its impossibly strong grasp, crying out in pain, ‘What the hell?’ ‘Precisely,’ the receptionist snapped. ‘It’s not like He didn’t give you chances. You admitted as much yourself.’ His eyes moved past her horrified tears, his ears deaf to her pleas. ‘Next!’ he shouted as the red counter slowly clicked on one and the faint odour of brimstone reached her nostrils. Image by Engin_Akyurt from Pixabay
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