Page 1 of Shattered Veil

Chapter 1

It’s strange how life can toy with a person. How the simple passing of time can change someone. How experiences can melt someone down as if they were made of metal and reforge them into something…new. And that something new could also be improved—it most certainly could—however, I often wondered if the reforging could render the metal brittle and breakable. If the reforging wasn’t a step above but simply a weak attempt to give the metal new life without appearing outwardly damaged. If the reforging was simply a bandage to cover the ugly wounds that were once disgustingly apparent.

There was no doubt where I would place my metaphorical smelting. It had occurred months ago during a time that I prayed I could forget, and I was currently stuck in a strange, liquified purgatory that left me…lost. Day after day, week after week, I’ve been attempting to go through the motions of sleep, eat, repeat.

I’ve been doing so out of necessity because…that’s what animals do, right? Sure, there’s some occasional exercise, depending on the species. Some act playful; some don’t. But that’s the gist of it…sleep, eat, repeat. Animals do what they need to do to keep their bodies moving—to live—to thrive—until they die.

We’re animals. Humans are animals, so I supposed that while I was trapped within the molten stage of my own purgatory, I could do just that…I could sleep, eat, and repeat.

But no. Humans need more than that. Our emotions…they go far beyond allowing us to simply sleep, eat, and repeat. They have the ability to make us run both hot and cold, twisting the monotony of what could be a simple existence into something far more complex. Into something that could bring us a joy so bright—so warm that it heats our body from the feeling alone. Unfortunately, the flip side of the coin of this is darkness. A hellish void that’s freezing to the point that we could be pushed to end it all. There’s love. Hate. Jealousy. Guilt. Repressed Desire.

That last one…fuck, that last one. I’ve felt all of the spectrums of emotion because I’m human, of course, but repressed desire is one that I’ve been growing increasingly familiar with. And that, in turn, is beginning to drive me mad because I’m a man that runs hot—I always have. I emote. My feelings are absorbed with the full extent of their power and worn on my sleeves for all to see, so to repress something out of what feels like necessity…it’s unnatural to me.

And I think it’s starting to affect how I outwardly appear to others. I think it’s starting to make me look…bitter. Grumpy.

Even now, I was grumbling to myself as I hunched over my meal—a leftover plate of tikka masala from the night prior—desperately wishing that I could push my chair backward to ease my aching shoulders. The idea was impossible, of course, because the stool, along with all the other stools that surrounded the so-called dining space, were bolted to the ground. I wasn’t sure if Corporate America thought that all of us were inbred criminals who would steal even the chairs in the kitchen space, but the thought of it irked me.

Truthfully, it had never bothered me before. The stools, I mean. But the tangent that I had unnecessarily ventured on within my mind regarding my molten state and repressed desire had suddenly made me sullen…and I was grinding my teeth together as my friend and colleague Shawn Brooks entered the break room. He strutted his way past me, turned to the left to walk around the peninsula of a white countertop, and beelined to the fridge. I watched as he grabbed an orange-tinged Tupperware that had a yellow sticky note adhered to the red top that read: Brooks.

“Turner,” he greeted me as he popped the lid and threw it into the microwave.

“What’s up, Brooks?” I replied, pushing my lunch around with a fork in my own plastic-ware.

The button-down shirt he wore had a blue checkered pattern, and it criss-crossed as he folded his arms over his chest, cocking his head at me. Shawn’s light green eyes, which offset the dark tone of his skin in a striking manner, narrowed at me in mock accusation.

“You haven’t answered my question from earlier.”

I took a bite of chicken, which had turned cold, chewed, and swallowed. “What question?”

“Tomorrow—you goin’ out with us?”

I nearly spat my next bite back in the plastic container. “I thought you were joking?”

His dark eyebrows rose. “About spending quality time with a good friend? No. Thanks for that reply, though—”

“Brooks,” I scoffed. “Come on, don’t do that fuckin’ guilt thing you do.”

“You look miserable lately, Jay,” Shawn groaned. “It would do you some good to let off some goddamn steam.”

I sighed, placed the top on my Tupperware, and snapped it shut. “Letting off steam does not equate to going to a strip club, Brooks.”

He threw his short mess of thick curls back as he whined, “Yeah, yeah, James Turner doesn’t do strip clubs. He doesn’t do one-night stands. He’s a committed man. Oh, please, Jay—you haven’t been with a woman in months.”

“Um…I don’t share my entire life with you. You have no idea if I’ve been seeing someone lately or not.”

“Oh. Have you been seeing someone, then?”

“I—no, whatever—look, going to a strip club has nothing to do with being committed to someone,” I retorted. “I don’t wanna walk into a place with loud-ass music, half-naked women, and dollar bills all over the floor—”

“Yeah,” Shawn interrupted me in a sarcastic tone, “that sounds like a terrible time.”

“Shawn—”

He gasped dramatically, his vibrant eyes widened, and the microwave dinged.

“You did not just first-name me. My first name is reserved for people who are so inclined to scream it out.” His jokingly shocked gaze flashed to me. “Unless…”

“Brooks, please.”

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