Page 18 of The Gift
“They’re going to go ape shit when they find out,” Simone says, gathering up the water bottles. She must have been quick, mine is already gone, but I hop up and move to the cooler to grab another.
“Not our problem. We don’t have that kind of pull. We were very honest about that and have them on camera agreeing to that,” I say quickly before drinking half the bottle, hoping to wash the foul taste from my mouth that Pack Miller left behind.
Ben starts shuffling more on his feet, herding the crew really. “We need to go. Honestly, the last thing we need is for them to get that advice from their lawyer now. They’d be in here smashing cameras.”
The team chat between each other as I stand and watch, listening too.
“I suspect they’ll be doing a lot more than that when they find out how unedited they’re going to be.”
“We’ve been straight up with them though. Donnie’s money was well spent getting us that procedural training with those lawyers.”
I help where I can, but while the crew dismantles all the cameras, lighting and gather the endless electrical cords, I spend a lot of the time on my phone giving a rundown of what transpired in our interview, in a quick impromptu teleconference with both Donnie and Carmen.
The team and I make it to our next appointment with little time to spare. Although this time Exposé’s lawyers join us as we talk to the very people that Pack Miller were referring to, the ones handling the appeal against the recent decision by the court on the omegas caught up in the Regalo Project. That segment is tense, and if I’m honest, it’s as ugly as the encounter with the alphas from earlier.
Honestly, I shouldn’t be surprised by the people we meet in my line of business, but I am. I’m not suggesting that Pack Miller are the dregs of society, no they are way past that—I rank them down low with the other scums of our society. Just because they don’t wear prison suits or carry meat cleavers doesn’t mean they are any less evil.
The whole day is incredibly draining, and more than a little soul shattering. The weight of what I have heard during both interviews, along with listening to their intentions to keep fighting for their right, despite the rest of the world being pretty vocal about how wrong that is, sits heavily. And in a lot of ways, it feels personal. Of course, it does. They’re talking about me essentially.
Turning down the offer of a bite to eat at the Thai restaurant near our office, I keep it together as I say goodbye in the lobby.
My fog of swirling emotion and anxiety follows me all the way to my car in the back corner of the underground garage. As soon as the door closes, I lock myself in the dark, nearly hyperventilating. My shakes turn to shivers and instead of feeling safer in here, I feel more exposed than ever. I get drawn into a downward spin of my thoughts. If I’m tumbling down a slippery slope I need to get home.
I guess I drive on autopilot and am dazed when I pull into my garage, waiting until the electronic door drops behind me. Leaving all the lights off, dropping all my clothes along the way, I end up sitting in the one spot I half love, half hate. The roof hangs so low and sags in part due to my botch job, but it’s as necessary as soft textured blankets, when I feel like the world really is too big and ugly.
I wish I could get past the past. I wish I understood how for a minute I thought I could be a part of this story. Today life seems to be a cruel joke without a punchline.
Drawing the edges of my fluffy bedding under me, I huddle down, chasing the slightest comfort I’ve never found despite hiding away in a lush cocoon of blankets and pillows. The once pretty space feels… empty, devoid of warmth and lacklustre at best. Dragging my small oil heater closer, I swallow a few pills, send my resignation to Carmen and the team before putting my phone on do not disturb and counting off the endless promises I’ve made to myself until I black out.
Bailey
The steady pounding on my front door matches the beat in my head, and for a few brutal moments they sound together. I sit it out, wallowing from deep inside my ball of blankets, watching the shadowy feet of my visitor dance impatiently for me to answer.
I barely breathe. And definitely don’t move, hoping that they disappear and leave me be.
It’s hard to put into words how I feel, inside me I feel like I’ve been cast adrift.
The intercom starts up next, at least the hammering on my door stops but this noise is ear splitting and hard to listen to. Now it’s like a swarm of angry locusts have been let loose in my house.
By the time it all stops, I’m a bundle of frayed nerves and dark emotions, much like my black cable knit blanket. And look, I’m such a fan of black as a colour, on some days it brings me a lot of happiness, other days it’s a colour of mourning. Today it is neither, which in a lot of ways is way worse than being something.
And if I hadn’t reached out to Carmen hours ago, my guilt would have eaten through everything, leaving behind nothing but bones. But I did because I know she wouldn’t have bothered knocking before barging in and demanding answers.
I had enough sense to not dismiss her concerns entirely. I lured her away from my meltdown, hiding under some bullshit excuse about a flu temporarily stealing my intelligence, and blaming it on catching it from either the alphas or the lawyers. Either way, Carmen and I made a deal that I’d be in her office at noon to discuss what we’re doing next, because, surprise, surprise she completely rejected my earlier resignation with a fuck off email in response. Getting ready to face her, I knock back a couple of tablets and move to the sofa, zoning out watching Netflix. Passing time until I have to get ready, but also waiting for my medication to dull my thoughts and shroud my worries.
I know, without a doubt that I am not actually sick-sick, even though I’ve got a doughiness to my thoughts that goes with having a fever. I’m not overly emotional at all. I’ve remained on an even keel, no anger, no tears. I really feel like I’m not full, nor empty.
It looks like my new suppressants are working exactly like they should be.
After too many episodes of watching something inconsequential but also half engrossing, I climb to my feet. Wobbling slightly, I realise after a while I might have to adjust the dosage of the tablets, because I’ve literally lost hours enjoying the floating suppression. Being late for my meeting though helps wake me up in a sense. And in all honesty, being late is a relief.
The added pressure of racing against the clock means I have to focus solely on what I’m doing, and not get distracted by what-ifs. And the first smile I crack in a few hours is a real one, when I walk into Carmen’s office, although it falls straight off my face when I realise Ashton is waiting with her.
“Don’t look at me like that, and you look like crap by the way. You’re the one that resigned last night and apparently Donnie didn’t take too kindly to his favourite presenter doing a left hook from out of nowhere.” Carmen reclines in her leather managerial seat as she snarks at me, smirking like a lioness in the process.
I ignore replying to her instead wordlessly glaring with her, making her shrug back unapologetically before I take a seat in front of her desk.
“I’m getting a flu. Sorry about last night.” I fake smile, focusing on her and only her, despite Ashton’s gaze adding to the heat of humiliation burning through me. I drone on a little monochromatically, with a bit too much sarcasm, but they both let it go without comment. “I must have been out of it when I sent the email. Delirious, really.”
