Page 1 of House of Deceit

“Where’s my story?” I flip through the newspaper, the paper crinkling as I go through it once more. Slamming my hands on the desk, my coworker turns to look at me over our short divider.

“He didn’t include my article,” I tell him.

“Again?” he asks, disbelief in his voice.

I spin in my chair and look at Mark in his office. He leans back in his chair, feet propped on the desk, laughing at something the person on the other end of the phone says, unaware that I’m weighing if going to jail would really be that bad. Pushing up from my desk, I yell out across the floor.

“Mark!”

The sounds of the office stop. Ringing phones go unanswered. Fingers stop dancing across keys. I’m making a spectacle, but I don’t care. Mark looks at me through the glass. I watch as he tells the person on the phone that he must go while dropping his feet from the desktop. He tries to saunter out of his office, but he looks like a slimy cartoon villain in his ill-fitting, black suit.

“What’s the problem, babe?”

I push down my revulsion at the old endearment.

“You didn’t print my story. Again,” I accuse.

“It wasn’t up to snuff. Maybe if you would put some effort into your stories, they would be printed.” He crosses his arms over his chest and smirks, expecting me to backdown, but not this time.

“Effort? I spent six weeks researching that story.”

He scoffs, smirking. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me as the insult bangs around in my head, and I temporarily black out.

“I quit.” I pick my trashcan up and dump the contents on the floor. “Fuck this, fuck you, and fuck off. I’m done.” With my stomach in my throat, I snatch things off my desk and shove them into my makeshift box. Mark scoffs at me, but I ignore him.

“You can’t quit,” he huffs.

I pause my packing to glare at him. “I just did, you moron.”

“You’ll be back, Charlie,” he spins around, addressing the room, “They always come back. You won’t find a better job in this city.”

I put my purse strap over my shoulder, grab the trashcan, and try to rein in the desire to stab him with a letter opener. He steps in front of me as I move out from behind my now empty desk, stalling my grand exit.

Venom pours from my mouth.

“I would sell my plasma before I came back here. Obviously, no one else has ever told you this, so let me do the world a favor. You are a waste of a human being. You’re mean, stupid, lazy, and probably the devil incarnate. I hope you choke on your nightly frozen dinner for one and die.”

With each sentence I utter, his face turns more and more red. I shove past him and stomp toward the door, keeping my strides in check, so it doesn’t seem like I am running away. People avoid eye contact with me as I storm out, but I don’t care.

“Oh, yeah?” he calls out, regaining his bravado. “What does it say about you that we dated for three years? I might be the worst, but you were the one who begged me to marry you. You’re pathetic, and you’ll never find someone that makes you happy!”

I shift the trash can and flip him off over my shoulder without missing a single step. The beautiful spring day greets me as I storm from the building. A sense of relief washes over me. That job has sucked every ounce of life from me. I’m a dried-out fruit pit of a human after five years. Writing is my passion, but over the past year I’ve realized toiling away at this regional newspaper has taken away my love of words so much so that the novel I’ve been trying to write has been all but forgotten.

Being an author is a dream that I’ve had since I was a little girl. I excelled at all of my creative writing classes. Notebooks stuffed with story ideas waiting for me to set them free from my mind were crammed in every purse and bag. But the need to make money won, pausing my dreams and leading me into a steadier career.

My writing has stalled and so has my life.

I sit staring at my apartment building, unsure how I got here. I don’t remember a second of the drive. With a heavy sigh, I release the seatbelt, grabbing the trashcan from the passenger seat, and make my way up to my apartment. I press the button to call the elevator, and it does not light. I drop my head back in exasperation and make a mental note to cuss out the landlord as I start my hike up eight flights of stairs.

Sweat drips down my back, and I pant, pushing through my front door. I kick off my high heels unceremoniously, groaning in pleasure at being flatfooted after the unanticipated leg workout. The muscles in my quads shake from the exertion, and I silently promise to get myself a gym membership. My keys jingle as I drop them into the ceramic bowl on the entry table.

“Hey, babe? I’m home early.” Making my way down the short hallway toward Scott’s home office, I open the door, and the trashcan falls from my arms.

“Scott?”

The three monitors and a desk that lived in this room are missing. Quiet emptiness is all that remains. Confusion wraps around me. I make my way to the kitchen, calling out for him as I go, just in case he’s hiding somewhere. Scott loves his pranks, though I find them hurtful most of the time. Silence echoes loudly as I turn into the kitchen.

Like the greatest cliché in the world, a note and his key sit on the counter.

---