Chapter 8 - The Brass Handles
The heavy brass handles of the double doors began to turn.
The metallic click was sharp, slicing through the suffocating silence.
The doors swung inward, pushed open by a confident, heavy hand.
A rush of cold evening air swept into the hallway, rustling the velvet drapes.
Arthur stepped over the threshold.
His light grey double-breasted suit was impeccably tailored, not a single crease out of place.
His dark navy tie was perfectly knotted at his throat.
In his right hand, he held a sleek, black leather briefcase.
He took one step into the grand foyer.
His leather heel touched the marble.
His eyes scanned the floor.
They locked onto the overturned wheelchair.
They moved to the beige lace.
They tracked the neon orange puddle creeping toward his polished shoes.
His momentum died instantly.
He froze.
The muscles in his jaw locked.
The blood drained from his face, leaving his skin the color of old parchment.
His fingers went entirely numb.
The black leather briefcase slipped from his grip.
It hit the floor with a heavy, dead thud.
The brass clasps popped open, spilling thick stacks of white paper across the marble, mere inches from the orange liquid.
He didn't look at the papers.
He didn't look at his wife on the floor.
He looked up the long corridor.
May you like
He looked directly at his mother.
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