Page 18 of Shameful Addictions

Charlotte sat forward again and grabbed onto her computer and made a new email account, since Mamba hadn’t relinquished her old one, or any of her social media, in the week since she lost the trial. She tapped out a series of quick emails to everyone whose addresses she could recall from memory, old friends and colleagues and connections who might be able to assist her. Some of the ones living in the city had to know of her recent disgrace and might be willing to help her in private. And those who were further away, she could get to them with her side of the story before the media had a chance to influence them.

It was a media circus everywhere she looked, so she had stopped looking. She was tired of hearing repeats of her supposed crime told in different words by various newscasters, and she was disgusted by the number of interviewees who were glad she’d lost the case.

Didn’t they know she had been trying to help people like them?

Didn’t they know the purpose of television was to entertain and that some details would be swept under the rug or glorified to make a better story?

Didn’t they understand?

Or was all of this staged? A huge conspiracy?

Charlotte put her cheek on her hand and watched her computer screen, waiting for email responses from her contacts. As a content creator, she was naturally aware of all the weird corners of her platform where people rattled off about UFOs and how JFK’s death could have been planned by the government. She’d disdained such content, which could corrupt the minds of younger viewers who didn’t yet know how to separate fact from fiction. And now she was right in the middle of a conspiracy herself, or what sure as hell felt like one. Everyone could be bought for a certain price. Suppose Mamba had paid the television networks to portray her like this? He could easily select supporters of his or even actors that he wanted to appear on TV with pre-chosen opinions.

If only she was in a movie. Right about now, she’d be finding a key piece of information to confirm her suspicions. Like the underdog she was, she’d come out on top and take down Mamba, and cause his entire scheme to unravel.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t a movie.

She held out hope, but it didn’t last very long.

Practically no one replied to her emails. One of the few responses came from someone she didn’t know, as she’d messed up one of the addresses and accidentally sent it to them. The recipient told her this, then professed their undying hatred for her.

The other people who replied, former friends, colleagues, expressed a mix of sympathy and disdain, though all made it clear they wanted nothing to do with her for their own safety.

Forced to start anew, she put out resumes, sending them to large companies where her particular skills could be of use.

All responses came back negative, and that was if she was given a response at all.

Another month passed, and then two. She was able to pay her installments exactly as she had predicted, though now the situation was dire. Worse still, she had run out of respectable companies to apply to. She’d been contacting potential employers as far away as a two-hour drive and still no one even wanted to give her an interview.

She was absolutely, utterly alone.

Her appetite decreased and she stopped eating more than once a day, if that. She tried to be cheerful about it and would tell herself she was losing weight, with the added bonus that her food would last longer and she’d have to pay less. Cheer wasn’t a thing that came easy and soon she stopped pretending.

Around that time, she stopped going outside.

The media attention around her had died down, having done all the damage they could. People saw her and knew who she was. They spat on her, tripped her when she walked, pushed and shoved her. They threw insults at her from across the other side of the road, sometimes even risking getting run over to come over and deliver their taunts face-to-face. And sometimes, a reporter, always looking bored, always clearly having drawn the short straw, would be lingering right outside the building to catch her.

Best to stay inside.

Best to bunker down and bear this siege as best she could, though her walls were cracking and crumbling all around her.

The fourth month came and went, leaving her with so little that paying the rent on her apartment almost broke her spirit for good.

The fifth month did break her, the final straw on her back. No, the final boulder on top of the avalanche on her back. She couldn’t make it, even when pooling the last scraps of her money together. Even selling her stocks was a mere drop in the bucket.

Deadline looming, she knew she had no choice.

Charlotte drank an ungodly amount of coffee, pacing in a jittery fashion in her apartment until night fell over the city. She waited another two hours after that, wearing a path on her carpet, and then she made her move.

Under the cover of night, with big sunglasses obscuring most of her face, she drove to a pawn shop that looked at least halfway respectable. Stepping out of the car into the cool of near-winter, frost shimmering on her breath, she took a shoebox from her passenger seat. She tucked the shoebox under her arm and hustled through the chill and through the door, beside which flashed a dull “open” sign.

The air in the shop was thick with the odor of cigar smoke and desperation. A man, smoking a fat cigar, turned his ruddy face in her direction. “Out late.”

It wasn’t a question. Charlotte hurried up to him with her shoebox and set it on the counter in front of him. As the only customer, she felt she had a right to get down to business before he invited her to. “How much can I get for all of this?” she demanded, and took the lid off the box.

A tangle of jewelry gleamed in the harsh bare bulbs dangling over the counter, coils of silver chain and gold bangles, amethyst earrings, diamond necklaces, all of it very tasteful and classy and yet so gaudy when jumbled together in such a manner.

The man pinched out his cigar and set it aside on an ashtray, which already seemed to bear the remnants of several other rolls. He reached for the box and pulled it closer to him. His fingernails were yellow from tobacco. “Can I?”

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