Chains Chapter 1

Chains

From all directions he could hear them as they sang in their cold, high-pitched voices, a cruel choir devoid of emotion, devoid of mercy. It was an empty song that he had long since grown accustomed to, but never fond of, much like everyone else, for there was no place where they could not be heard, and not one who wandered free from their hold amidst the dull, monochrome pavements and streets that formed the rigid foundations of the machine-like city.

Round both his wrists they coiled themselves, tighter than a serpent constricting the very life out of its prey, and down toward his feet they slacked in a lazy, shape-shifting curve, singing as they slithered with their bellies against the floor, oscillating toward and away from him with every step he took, his pace dictating the magnitude of their swings, but nothing more.

In the intensifying sunlight of early morning, their silver scales shimmered, reflecting blinding rays that danced about on concrete walls, granite floors and other surrounding surfaces, occasionally even right into his weathered face, compelling him to turn away as they pierced his tired eyes, almost as though they deemed it necessary to remind him of their obvious presence. And yet, there was nothing he could do in the face of their tyranny, and from them he could find no rest.

Like every other day that had already wandered by, down the main street he shuffled, unintentionally marching in step with everyone else as they dragged their bindings along, absent of will yet full of fabricated purpose. And when he finally came to the café, the one with the striped red umbrellas, he routinely picked up his coffee; the blackest and most bitter they had, before rejoining the parade for another two blocks, a stretch that always bore the greatest frustration for him; the frustration of a brand new day.

Crossing over from the street into the building was always a risky affair; the rotating door was never one for waiting, with its two conflicting currents of sharply dressed individuals moving in constant opposition of one another, demanding a certain precision in timing if he was to successfully pass through unscathed for the day. But the inescapable smell that greeted him almost immediately upon entrance was the one thing that never failed to sicken him and turn his stomach, and it was here that the coffee truly proved its usefulness.

The marble-floored lobby resembled that of a hotel in both form and fragrance, consciously designed to serve the same purpose of soothing the nerves, but nevertheless, for him, that familiar setting was only capable of construing images of words and numbers printed boldly against sheets and sheets of glaring white in the deepest recesses of his mind; images that he could not stand thinking about, much less endure seeing.

And shortly after his mind wandered into the snare of those thoughts, he would feel the unbearable weight of layers upon layers of primal, yet complex pressures bearing down upon his chest, manifesting themselves into a strange reluctance to step through the sliding doors of the elevator. Yet never once did he ever fail to take that step, albeit led by the logic of his mind and not by the callings of his heart.