Body Language Is More Powerful Than Words Spoken!

I look ahead, down this long, cold, concrete passage filled with numerous men in crisp, clean suits. All I hear is the chaos of their voices running towards each other. I know what I have to do. I grasp the shiny, gold door knob, twist it open and walk through as the creaking door opens its way to an utter silence. I slam the door shut and walk slowly against the concrete floor, each step making its presence known. As I walk across this seemingly small empty room, I stand facing a man with a blank expression, attempting to ignore my existence.

This man leant over towards the steel, imbalanced table with his arms solidly crossed, legs securely fastened to the floor and eyes daggering into the opposing two sided, and shiny mirror directly across the room. I remain frozen while closely examining this unkept man. His red, tired and heavy eyes draw closer to the white nest of hair covering half of his burnt dried out and wrinkled face. His lips slowly open, revealing yellow subtly crooked teeth. His soft, husky voice informs me of his firm decision to remain silent of the remaining time spent there. I lift my black leather briefcase onto the steel table. The table loses balance and nocks the floor with different legs. The man removed his arms from the table suddenly and violently crosses them against his chest, his facial expression changes just as abruptly to an unimpressed, angered frown. I slowly release the clip to my briefcase causing it to swing open, and bang against the thin top of the table. I remove the crème coloured portfolio containing numerous explicit, revolting and unsettling photos. I roughly place each of the seven perspectives photographed in black and white along his side of the table, ensuring they all stare directly into his line of vision.

All seven photographs displaying a young man, with his face planted painfully against the bricked floor of an unused alley. The man was dressed in a torn suit, with blood seeping out the cut material and running downhill into the closest drain. Lying beside him are cracked, broken reading glasses, a shredded large, thin book with traces of paper scattered along the alley. The man's shoes were missing revealing a single toe peeping out the hole on his grey cotton socks.

The man moves his arm from the securely crossed position and brings his dry, harsh hand towards his face and airily scratches towards the side closest to his eyes. He leans forward gradually and gazes over the pictures, his eyes start to soften, changing from anger to sadness. His eyes begin watering; the beautiful glistening of the water flooding between his eye lids till finally it falls over and races towards the corner of his nose. He quickly rushes to clear his pain and proceeded to blatantly stare through the mirror as though he could see the eyes staring back at him from the other side.

I take hold of the photos and place them gently into my briefcase, bringing the top closer and clip

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