Anatoly<br/><br/>The numbers were beginning to blur on the page, so I turn away and rub my eyes. I had been at this for hours but I think there is a light at the end of the tunnel and I may actually have the report in before the deadline. I'll be happy when it's done. It wasn't incredibly complex, just tedious.<br/><br/>The lights in the office were off, my desk being lit by computer monitor alone, I felt like I was on a bubble a womb. Looking around there were a couple of other functioning wombs. I prefer it this way. Most days this office is controlled chaos, but now I'm left to my own devices, me against the numbers, against myself. The quiet filled me with peace and I felt hidden from judging eyes.<br/><br/>Orders had come from above to re align the budget in a very specific manner. It had turned the office Maxine on its head with myself and co workers spinning off in our own frantic dashes. As I've worked my portion, I can't help wonder at some of the new allocations. Was there a connection to recent news events? Reports we're telling of a strange epidemic in Asia, while little was known, it did seem to have certain countries reacting. Is this our reaction?<br/><br/>As I look out the window, at the ghostly snow and purple sky, I can't shake the feeling that we are in the calm before an approaching storm. Or maybe it's just my flair for the dramatic.<br/><br/>With a sigh I turn back to work when my eyes brush over the corner of the photo, the rest buried under papers. I pull the picture from under and there they are smiling at me, my wife and boy. We were so happy then. My breath hitches in my throat, thinking about that day. It's all gone now. He is dead and she was in the arms of another. He wanted to hate her. She betrayed me,betrayed the loss they shared. The thought of her fucking another stung but her running away from the boys death this way, leaving me with all this pain. I want to want her to suffer. Yet I can't. I can't hate her. She found her way to cope. Is it any different with me and the bottle?<br/><br/>God, I need a drink.<br/><br/>It's funny how wombs start off so peaceful. Eventually though the shadows get longer and dusk brings the pain in. Maybe that's why we are born screaming.<br/><br/>My thought are broken by distant muffled pops. A couple of single pops and then a rattle like fireworks.it sounded like gun fire. Looking around no one else seemed to hear or at least they didn't react. Listening, the noise doesn't repeat. Shaking my head and wanting that drink , I turn back to work.<br/><br/>Five minutes pass and the fire alarm goes off. The blare is a cacophony that fills all space. I stand up with the others, joining their bewildered stairs. This can't be a drill. Suddenly, the alarm cuts and a woman's frantic voice demands we head to the lobby. What the fuck? Maybe it was gunfire. Maybe we are under attack.<br/><br/>I head to the stair case with the others, but suddenly double back to my desk. I don't want to take it but I can't help myself. I put the picture in my back pocket. I open the bottom drawer, its contents I do want. I put the pint of whiskey in my jacket and back to the stairs.<br/><br/>The lobby was almost blindinfg after spending hours in dim light. There were people gathered looking confused and worried. The owner of the loudspeaker voice, a security officer, was waving her gun excitedly and calling us over. This didn't look good.