Assignment 6

This assignment was to “create a character by means of action.”  He suggested giving a name and a few brief descriptions right off, then taking the character for a walk, and having the character enter a room….
Her name was one of the things she hated most about herself, though the list was long.  Sara Smith.  So plain, so bland.  Her parents had chosen the wrong name for her, and at sixteen she was convinced that changing her name would change her life.  She slammed the door to their small apartment and pushed play on her hard-earned ipod.  Her dark eyes took in all that she passed—the taxis, the buses, the signs in the shop windows, looking for something, anything.  
It seemed to always be grey here, whether the sun was shining or not, and today was hovering on the edge of rain.  The heaviness of the air made it smell worse than usual—exhaust and garbage, mixing with the grease and seasonings of a dozen different restaurants.  The blaring of horns and beeping of crosswalks were kept at bay but she scowled at this busy world around her. This place was dirty and small, no matter what the signs said about it being the most beautiful city in the region. She hated the smells, hated the sights; and wished there was an ipod-type muffler for each of her senses.  
She ducked into an alleyway to cut through the block, hoping this would lead her more directly to her favorite coffee shop.  She tipped her head back and scanned the brick walls for anything of interest.  A couple of floors up, there was an open window.  She turned off her music, and bent to retie her laces.  She took a running start and jumped for the bottom rung of the fire escape, caught it, and pulled the rest of herself up easily.  As quietly as a cat, she made her way up the rusty iron steps to the window.  Crouching low, she studied the room for evidence of a tenant.  She could hear a clock ticking, somewhere to her right, and there was a faucet dripping slowly at the far end of a dark hallway.  She smiled to herself, loving the adrenaline rush as she folded herself through the window—she was mostly sure the place was empty.  Her shirt caught on a nail, ripping slightly.  She picked off the lingering threads and stuffed them into her pocket, thinking fleetingly of TV’s insistence that police forces were full of competent and thorough investigators.  
Sara padded across the faded faux-oriental rug as calmly and as surely as an invited guest might.  There was a book shelf filled with framed snap shots of a young woman in her twenties, smiling broadly from various locations with various handsome men.  Sara felt a soft twinge deep in her middle.  This woman had the perfect life.  She opened one of the frames, gently peeling out the photo.  She pressed it to her heart, then slid it into her back pocket.  She walked into the bathroom, first tightening the cold water knob to stop the dripping.  Glancing up, she was startled—the isolation of this adventure had changed the way her features lined up, her increased heart rate somehow giving her an unfamiliar reflection.  She blinked and looked away, unsettled.  She picked up a perfume bottle and sprayed it into the stillness, not bothering to smell it.  Carefully, deliberately, Sara pulled a pen out of her pocket and, on her arm, she began taking note of the brands and flavors of each toiletry item.  A prickle made its way through her, from her jaw down the length of her spine—a warning that she was crossing a line, yet another line.