Page 68 of Cuts like a Knife
But at least I’m not fired224. There’s that.
Sometimes I don’t know who I am anymore. Why am I like this now? Why do I put up with things? Why don’t I argue?
I mean, I guess I do still argue, a little, but it’s so much more half-hearted than it used to be. I always seem to give in. To Callum, to Lars. Even to Drew.
Sometimes I feel like all the bravado I used to have — all the bravery that I thought was like, an essential part of who I was — has evaporated. This fear — the fear of losing my job, of everyone finding out the truth about me — it’s eaten away at me from the inside for the past two years.
I’m a shell of who I used to be. Sometimes I can summon enough strength to sort of pretend I’m okay, but it never seems to work out. Everything I try turns to s—. People laugh. I deflate. Nothing holds anymore. My confidence is shot. And yet … I know I’m supposed to be grateful.
I despite the idea of the people from Flash seeing me and realizing I’m so broken. Kelsang, Adele, that monster Rian. I don’t what them to know what they did to me. How badly what happened affected me. My pride can’t take it. I need to prove I’m fine. That I’m thriving. Even if I’m not.
I need a story.
Something more than the basics of what is happening here on the set of a stupid reality show. Something real. Maybe if I can break something — something special, a real newsy sort of piece — they’ll see. They’ll see how wrong they were225.
Only … what? There are no real stories here. None at all.
What do I have that they don’t?
I’m friendly, or I can be when I want to be. I guess I’m not afraid to speak up, even when the things I’m saying don’t land right. I’m a relatively authentic person, not a fake, like most journalists. I can talk to pretty much anyone. I’m not shy. All of those things could work in my favor, sure, but I can’t pull a good story out of thin air.
Sigh.
I’ll just have to make the best of things. Do the best job I can while I’m here. While I still have a job. That’s all I can do.
Or is it?
I let myself think about the thing I’ve been pointedly avoiding thinking about in any detail since Friday afternoon — the email. The threat. I haven’t heard back from the blackmailer. Other than emails from Lars and stupid press releases, my inbox has been quiet.
Hotmail user 5370794D61737465720A hasn’t responded to my message asking who he is226.
I click into the message and ponder it.
From: [email protected]
Subject: You’re going down
I know what you did. You thought you got away with it, but I know the truth. And I’m going to tell.
Stay tuned, b—-
Whoever sent it used the correct version of you’re in the subject line. That makes me think it could be someone from Flash. Like Rian. Journalists are pretty good about the you’re/your thing. Other people, not so much.
The words “I’m going to tell” though … those read female to me. I don’t know why.
Then there’s the sign-off — “stay tuned, b—”. That’s language definitely coded as male, right?
Come on, Lex! I think. You’re a journalist! Figure it out!
Who am I kidding? I’ve got nothing.
You know what? Google. Google has always been my friend. I grab the username and paste it into my browser.
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