For an hour, there's been nothing but the quiet. For an hour, she's made every sound, every noise, every slightest disruption to that quiet, hidden well in plain sight behind a windshield tinted heavy by the blinding glare of afternoon's light.
She drifted tired, sunken eyes over at the vacant passenger seat where a small opened notepad was left to bake in the sun. The harsh white glaze of the paper sent colorful splotches obscuring her vision to which she irritably blinked out.
With one hand over the steering wheel, she clicked a nearly depleted pen hanging loose between her fingers, and with the other. she reached for the notepad… bringing them together, she brought the tip of the pen pressing down against the last empty white space of the page before it was officially filled to the brim with countless amounts of her hasty scribbles.
Pausing briefly, she peered back up at the top of the page, reading again, as she did over and over again, the very first in a long list of notes.
1590 Bentley Hill Road. Two-story house, red roof, a dog house in the garden.
Irene went ahead and scanned the rest of the page, making sure that what she was about to jot down had not already been written long ago in longer, duller hours prior.
>
only for that to be roughly scribbled out, replaced roughly and quickly with another line.
Down the page the entries continued on, so spanning across long ticulously detailed paragraphs, while others would more than often end in just a single sentence worth of words. Also sprinkled throughout her worded thoughts were tiny little blurbs, things, and details she bolded and underlined twice that she deed of great pertinence.
Usually they never really were in the end… but regardless, she jotted them down all the sa.
Eventually, once more, her eyes reached the empty white space at the end of the notepad again where her pen had been bleeding black into the page all this while… and as such the first letter she wrote had a darker, wetter outline in the next sentence she wrote.
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