Work Text:
"Since when are the corridors so long?" he wondered after passing by the umpteenth door. He kept running without decreasing intensity, despite the burning in the lungs and pain in the legs –the daily pack of cigarettes was taking its toll on him and his muscles were complaining from the sudden exercise, in his state it was impossible to remember the last time they had been so demanded.
He couldn't stop.
He mustn't stop.
When he finally found the stairs, he descended the steps two at the time, without fear of falling and breaking a bone. He only cared about putting distance, seeking refuge.
The strange words spoken by the elderly janitor on the day of his arrival were a distant echo.
("The only way to survive here is to keep a low profile," he had whispered with an air of finality, just before stopping in front of the door of what would be his room. "Do your job, but without attracting attention. And above all, no matter how much or what they promise you, never, never think of volunteering.”)
However, when had he listened to any advice? Even fearing to sound petulant, how could a simple janitor know more than he did, when his only responsibility was to pass the broom or change light bulbs?
Arrogant idiot. Of course, he ignored it
(“The members of the Board are sure that you will perform successfully in the face of this new challenge.”
“Of course, Your Ladyship. You can count on me”)
The conversation played in his mind in an endless loop. Although it seemed to him that it had happened years ago, only three days had passed. Had he not been so euphoric at such an opportunity, it was likely that he had noticed some change in the woman's face, perhaps a small grimace, a tic that gave him clues to the impasse to which she sent him. However, in the short time he had known her, he had not been able to decipher her –her facade was impenetrable, for some reason she was the boss.
He ran without stopping, not caring about the consequences of his desertion. He didn't even think about going back to his room to collect his belongings. They were only objects, he could replace them.
Get out of there, that was his goal. Cross the threshold to life.
The tapping of heels echoed in the hallway.
"At least this one forgot the car keys," she thought bitterly. After the unpleasant accident suffered by the previous one, she was glad for the small mercies –product of despair, he had badly taken a curve and had crashed into one of the centennial oak trees that abounded on the property.
He had been captured before he managed to leave the premises. Like his predecessors, he had run as if the devil himself was chasing him –which was not far from reality. They kept him sedated, interned in the special wing they had to set up, away from prying eyes –its residents only increased. The attending physician expected that therapy would begin in at least a week; he had asked for permission to implement an alternative method in the hope that this time it would work.
She took a deep breath, sighed deeply, straightened her clothes, and opened the door marked with the number 23.
The children stopped what they were doing as soon as she entered the room. An expression of the most abject innocence was painted on the pink and childish faces of its occupants, all directed towards her –they would surely deceive someone with less experience. While some had been coloring with wax crayons, others were constructing buildings using blocks or making dummies with play dough, in the reading corner some were flipping through colorful storybooks.
"Good morning, Your Ladyship," they greeted her in one voice, as they stood up like miniature soldiers.
Concealing her resignation as well as possible, she went to the reading corner, took a handkerchief from a pocket of her jacket, and inclined before the smallest boy in the group.
"Retract the fangs," she ordered. The boy obeyed immediately and the directress proceeded to wipe away the blood on his chin.
"I'm going to take care of you again," she informed them as she headed for the desk.