Writing 101, Day Sixteen: Serial Killer III

Prompt:

Today, imagine you work in a place where you manage lost or forgotten items. What might you find in the pile? For those participating in our serial challenge, reflect on the theme of “lost and found,” too

I would have even gone as a far so say that it was glowing there in that pile. LIke a warm kind of glow that feels like milk and home. It was one of those old timey promise rings, silver smithed by some sort of apprentice to get a discount. It was old and rubbed and rough, but still strangely alluring. The basket of things were wadded up with chains, lanyard, glasses, and ids and bus passes. But that ring, sat like that pile of lost things were a throne for it. Like it was an ever lost ring for the queen of lost items. It had to be my ring.

I reached over the desk table to grab up the basket and tuck it back into the lower cabinets. Just before locking them up i slid the ring into my finger. The left ring finger. For a moment  i felt like a wedded queen, engravings rubbing against my finger. I slipped it off after a moment and slid it into my pocket.

The bus station wasn’t a bad place to work but security was just a shit job over all. The people came and went, and i sat, looking menacing at each one. I had to do that. Just sit there, my hand on my gun/taser, eyeballing anyone who looked stupid enough to try anything. I don’t know why anyone would try anything at a  bus station, but if they did i’d be the first one to take that opportunity to finally shoot my gun/taser. I’m not entirely sure if i’m allowed to bring a personal gun to work, so just incase…it might be taser.

After my eight hour shift– People coming in as good samaritans returning things that didn’t belong to them…and some other careless people trying to find what they’d lost. No one came in for the ring. I doubt anyone would because it’d been sitting in that basket for a good couple of months now and i’d had my eye on it ever since– i went on home. I lived in a small shack on the side of town that was nice and cosy when i got it, but after 4 years it’d warn itself into me. The walls need new paint, but i’m not in the mood. Maybe when i get a husband he’ll do something like that.

When i sat down, on my couch, clothes peaking out of all of it’s sides, the ring was already out and in my palm. I thumbed it around silently, thinking–i don’t know what i was thinking, I lifted it up to the light and the engravings glimmered. I pulled it closer to read.

“for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” I read outloud to myself, “well, isn’t that encouraging.”

 

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