It’s the time when the birds stop singing and there’s no sign of sun but a dull yellow hue mixed with the blackness. She looks over her shoulder for a second, as if she’s expecting someone, before continuing down the cracked pavement. The streetlights that still have sizzling bulbs have clicked on, casting dim white circles onto the sidewalk below and a soft hum into the air that would usually go unnoticed. But not today, not by her. Today is Sunday, today is her looking day. Today is the day nothing goes unnoticed so that one thing has the chance to be found.
It’s not the worst neighborhood, but it’s certainly not the best. The whole scene isn’t so much dangerous as it is eerie. Everything here seems past, from the lawns to the people. They all have a powdery look to their pale faces, a stiffness to their walk that comes with the self-induced aging of a glass too full when they were younger.
The slap of her Converse on dirty pavement echoes off the side of the houses, a whispering drum beat, a constant, surprising reminder of presence. It’s only late evening but all the windows are dark and all the curtains are closed. She looks in every window, peers down every street she passes, and finds no one. There’s a look of expected disappointment on her face as she walks up her driveway, her cloudy blue eyes downcast and her pale peach lips twisted to the side at one end. The soft crunch of gravel under her feet replaces the drumbeat as she makes her way to end of the driveway. As she reaches the red door with the peeling paint, she turns around and waits for a second, as if willing someone, or something to appear. But the scene is as still as a painting, so she turns the doorknob and goes to sit inside and hope for the remedy to make her painting picture perfect.
*This is obviously a rough draft, a scene I typed out on the slow library computers in twenty minutes, so please tell me if you see and spelling or grammar mistakes! Thanks:)*