Chapter One, part 1
If you haven't read the prologue, please go here and start with that.
Chapter One ~ A Life Worth Living
First, a little about me. My name is Lynnette Ragasmort. Awful name, I know. I'm 27 (and a half) years old, and I’m a singer. Or, maybe I should say I want to be a professional singer. I have a boring day job, but at night I sing anywhere I can. I write and play all my own stuff, on my poor battered guitar that was a gift for my 10th birthday. Soon, I hope to be able to afford a nicer one.
My songs are kind of folkish, just me and my guitar telling the truth, and that is just something that people don't want to hear right now. The pop stuff on the radio is so far from what I do, I couldn't sing it even if I wanted to, and I sure am not going to dress like some of the harlots who do sing it. So I play here and there, and a few people like me enough to let me play their bars or local festivals or whatever.
I have one close, true friend, Karen, my roommate from college. Most other people are too sensitive or something. I am opinionated, and I have no qualms about sharing my observations. Too many people just want to make small talk or "chit-chat" which I hate. Karen understands, and Karen listens.
I have no husband, and no boyfriend at the moment, though I have had my share of dalliances. I like men, but again, too many are turned off by my forthright attitude. And always, they want me to be dependant, and I am not dependant; I refuse to be. I need no one but me.
My family, such as it is, consists of my father, his awful wife and their children. My mother died from complications due to my birth, leaving me an only child to be raised by my dad. I loved him and everything was great until he met Shelly. I told him from the first time I met her, when I was twelve, that I did not and would not ever like her, yet he insisted on marrying her when I was 13, halving my importance in his life. And worse, unforgivably, they had children, one when I was 15, one when I was 18. Suddenly my dad had a new family, and I knew he no longer needed me.
I have blondish, brownish hair, brown eyes and skin the color of the “flesh” crayon they used to make. Average, normal, boring.
BUT, onto my story:
I was sitting at my desk, printing pages and pages of reports, as I do all day every day at the world's most boring job. I print reports all day, and carry them around to the various people who are supposed to receive them, who sometimes throw the report I give them in the trash before I even leave their office. Sales reports, productivity reports, personnel reports. All day long I update, reformat, print and deliver reports. I get a half hour lunch, which I usually take at my desk, anyway, since the closest place to get lunch is a 10-minute walk. I hate the people here, I hate this company and I hate my job, but since I am a singer who hasn't made it yet, this is what I do. I'm the "report girl" as the obnoxious salesmen generally refer to me, at a company that sells plastic that other people make into stuff.
But I digress, as I said, I was sitting at my desk printing reports. The one being printed was 8 pages, and the copier, not the latest model by far, was slowly chugging out page 2. Three other reports were waiting the queue, and I had to go to the bathroom. So, I rushed past the nosy office manager, who always wants to talk and slid into the bathroom. There are only 3 stalls, and all were empty, so I chose the closest one; I heard they are the cleanest.
I did my business and was washing my hands, when, as usual, even though I didn’t want to, I glanced up in the mirror and thought I saw something behind me move. Just a little flash of something, and I whirled around, wet, soapy hands up, ready to fight the monster. But nothing was there, of course, nothing ever is. I rinsed my hands and dried them, studiously avoiding eye contact with the mirror. I headed back to my desk.
Needless to say, the printer had jammed in my absence, and I spent the next 10 minutes wrestling crumpled bits of Sales Report A-2, pages 4 and 5 from its clutches. Having ascertained that all the little pieces were free, and the printer was cooled down, I started it up again. One more page printed out, before it informed me that it was out of ink. I knew that couldn't be the case, because I had replaced the ink cartridge the day before. I fiddled with it, tried it again, and finally called the IT guy, Butchy.
Butchy hates people. I can't really blame him - the only time people here talk to him is when something breaks, so all he ever hears are complaints. Maybe he hates people because they call him "Butchy”; I sure would. But that is how he was introduced to me, and I don't even know what his real name is. I have found that he can be funny, with a quick sarcastic wit that rarely shows. To me, anyone who disdains the general public and hates this company is a comrade in arms.
Butchy lumbered up to my desk, panting. He's a big guy, which I am guessing comes from sitting around all day at his desk, playing computer games and waiting to be complained to.
"What's the problem, Lynette?" He huffed at me, glaring as though I had purposely messed up the machine so as to interrupt him. I have a theory that working here makes people less pleasant. Perhaps he hasn't recognized our comrade status.
"The printer says that it is out of ink, but . . ."
"So put a new cartridge in!" His eyes rolled so far I feared they'd pop out.
"BUT", I continued, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice, "I changed the cartridge yesterday before I left, and I've only printed about 20 pages. It had jammed right before that, so I thought that might have something to do with it." I rushed to get all of that out before I was interrupted again, and was rewarded with a grunt and the almost obscene slogan on the back of Butchy's T-shirt as he began fidgeting with the stubborn printer. I leaned against the wall of my cubicle, while he made an adjustment, tried to print, and began the process over again. After several unsuccessful attempts, he began taking pieces of it out and setting them on my desk, which is when my boss arrived and my phone rang simultaneously.
I mumbled an "excuse me" to my boss since the red button on the phone indicated an internal call. Someone missing a report? I picked it up - "This is Lynette, can you hold a moment please?" A male voice said yes and I set the phone back down and looked expectantly at Mrs. Cooper, my boss.
"Lynette, what is going on here?" She demanded, making a sweeping gesture to my desk. "People are waiting for their reports". In my head, my response went something like and that is exactly why I broke the printer you old bat! but, putting on my sweetest smile, I replied, "Butchy is fixing my printer" as any idiot can see!
"Hmph. Well. Try to keep this sort of thing to a minimum." She stalked away, before I could ask her exactly how I would keep the printer from breaking, since it was more than 7 years old and "there isn't room in the budget for such things". Butchy actually chuckled. I grinned ruefully, and said "Guess I'll have to do my 'printer health voodoo dance' tonight." He laughed again, and it made me feel a little better.
The feeling lasted about 15 seconds, because that was when he gave some piece of the printer a nice hard tug, and it broke with a sharp crack! Toner flew everywhere, especially all down my dress. Damn it!If only I hadn't answered the phone, I'd've been on the other side of the desk! Which reminded me, I hadn't picked up that poor guy I'd put on hold. The button still flashed, and knowing that a few more minutes wouldn't help my dress that much anyway, I grabbed the receiver and tried to keep a calm voice.
“I am sorry to have kept you on hold, how can I help you?” I tried wiping some of the toner up with a tissue from the box on my desk.
“Ah, Lynette, " the unfamiliar voice said, "I can see you're busy, I'll talk to you later." There was a click before I could disagree. Well, he's right, I thought and turned to head to the ladies room. Butchy offered what seemed like a sincere apology. I accepted, and started on my way.
Halfway there (just past the office manager's desk) I stopped cold. That man said he could see I was busy? But no one can see into my cubicle, I am at the very back, in a corner. The cubicle across from me, the only one someone could see into mine from without standing on a desk, was empty, filled with broken chairs and discarded computer pieces. Maybe he meant, he could tell I was busy. That made sense. But it still bothered me.
Assessing the damage in the privacy of the ladies room, I could see that no hope remained for this dress. Most of the front was now black, in an irregular, shimmering blob that still oozed a bit around the edges, growing slightly larger as I watched. Futile though it was, I grabbed a fistful of paper towels and mopped at it, succeeding only in removing the shininess, and leaving a dull, wet black spot.
My luck, in came Jeanie, the nosy office manager. She clucked and sympathetically asked, “Oh my, what happened to you?”
“Just a printer problem, Jeanie.” I scrubbed harder at the stain, wishing both it and she would just vanish.
“Well, you know, soda water works on red wine, or is that white? And I heard salt gets out stains, but I don’t really know about that. I use one of those spray-ons, myself, but, honey, I think that may not do it in this case. So, where you filling the ink or something?”
“No, Butchy was fixing it and something broke.”
“Well, Butchy isn’t the most graceful thing, is he?” She actually snorted in the middle of her snide chortle. “But he means well, the poor thing. He might get some self confidence if he went on a date now and then, but you know those computer geeks . . .” Her voice faded under my annoyed frown.
She must have taken the hint, because she went into a stall. When she emerged, she asked, “Do you want help with that?” I looked up. Ready to answer in my normal sarcastic way, but saw the sincerity on her face on swallowed my words.
“No, thanks, I think it’s a lost cause. I’m just going to wait in here until it’s at least dry.”
“Okay, then, sorry.” Jeanie walked out the door. And something in the mirror flashed. I looked up – nothing, again. Giving up with a resigned sigh I looked into the mirror to assess the damage.
This time there was something behind me.
Definitely something. Something large and transparent but with every color mixed in. It was moving, not going anywhere, just a fluid, natural flowing inside its constantly changing borders. I stared at it for a moment, before deciding that it had to be some sort of trick of the light, a reflection from the toner or something caught in the light fixture. I spun around to look behind me, hoping nothing was there, but somehow knowing it would be and when I did see it, hovering before me, I could feel my heart drop. I was trembling, not sure why I should be scared, except that nothing that appears in the mirror behind you can ever be good.
The thing itself didn’t frighten me as much as the fact that I could feel it. Every part of me could sense the presence of this ominous being. It pulled at me, drained something vital and indescribable from me, and I thought for a moment that I might faint. I wanted to touch it, but I couldn’t summon the strength, or maybe I was just too scared.
It spoke. A sound vibrating through me, coming not from the apparition, but from everywhere.
“Lynnette”. Just my name, and it terrified me as nothing had. There was no denying now that it was real, not some trick of the light. I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I just stared, and trembled and vaguely wondered what would happen if someone came in.
“Are you ready for your life to end?” Not threatening. Just calm, matter-of-fact. I could barely process the words. When I did, cold calm dread filled me, and I stopped shaking. I could only assume that I was too terrified to even feel the fear any more. It was an emotion beyond the human ability to sense.
“What?” Not the most ingenious reply, I know, but it was the only word I could form.
“You must decide if you are ready for your life to end. We will meet again, and then you will decide.” The being flickered out of existence and left me alone, covered in toner, in a well lit ladies room.
Chapter One ~ A Life Worth Living
First, a little about me. My name is Lynnette Ragasmort. Awful name, I know. I'm 27 (and a half) years old, and I’m a singer. Or, maybe I should say I want to be a professional singer. I have a boring day job, but at night I sing anywhere I can. I write and play all my own stuff, on my poor battered guitar that was a gift for my 10th birthday. Soon, I hope to be able to afford a nicer one.
My songs are kind of folkish, just me and my guitar telling the truth, and that is just something that people don't want to hear right now. The pop stuff on the radio is so far from what I do, I couldn't sing it even if I wanted to, and I sure am not going to dress like some of the harlots who do sing it. So I play here and there, and a few people like me enough to let me play their bars or local festivals or whatever.
I have one close, true friend, Karen, my roommate from college. Most other people are too sensitive or something. I am opinionated, and I have no qualms about sharing my observations. Too many people just want to make small talk or "chit-chat" which I hate. Karen understands, and Karen listens.
I have no husband, and no boyfriend at the moment, though I have had my share of dalliances. I like men, but again, too many are turned off by my forthright attitude. And always, they want me to be dependant, and I am not dependant; I refuse to be. I need no one but me.
My family, such as it is, consists of my father, his awful wife and their children. My mother died from complications due to my birth, leaving me an only child to be raised by my dad. I loved him and everything was great until he met Shelly. I told him from the first time I met her, when I was twelve, that I did not and would not ever like her, yet he insisted on marrying her when I was 13, halving my importance in his life. And worse, unforgivably, they had children, one when I was 15, one when I was 18. Suddenly my dad had a new family, and I knew he no longer needed me.
I have blondish, brownish hair, brown eyes and skin the color of the “flesh” crayon they used to make. Average, normal, boring.
BUT, onto my story:
I was sitting at my desk, printing pages and pages of reports, as I do all day every day at the world's most boring job. I print reports all day, and carry them around to the various people who are supposed to receive them, who sometimes throw the report I give them in the trash before I even leave their office. Sales reports, productivity reports, personnel reports. All day long I update, reformat, print and deliver reports. I get a half hour lunch, which I usually take at my desk, anyway, since the closest place to get lunch is a 10-minute walk. I hate the people here, I hate this company and I hate my job, but since I am a singer who hasn't made it yet, this is what I do. I'm the "report girl" as the obnoxious salesmen generally refer to me, at a company that sells plastic that other people make into stuff.
But I digress, as I said, I was sitting at my desk printing reports. The one being printed was 8 pages, and the copier, not the latest model by far, was slowly chugging out page 2. Three other reports were waiting the queue, and I had to go to the bathroom. So, I rushed past the nosy office manager, who always wants to talk and slid into the bathroom. There are only 3 stalls, and all were empty, so I chose the closest one; I heard they are the cleanest.
I did my business and was washing my hands, when, as usual, even though I didn’t want to, I glanced up in the mirror and thought I saw something behind me move. Just a little flash of something, and I whirled around, wet, soapy hands up, ready to fight the monster. But nothing was there, of course, nothing ever is. I rinsed my hands and dried them, studiously avoiding eye contact with the mirror. I headed back to my desk.
Needless to say, the printer had jammed in my absence, and I spent the next 10 minutes wrestling crumpled bits of Sales Report A-2, pages 4 and 5 from its clutches. Having ascertained that all the little pieces were free, and the printer was cooled down, I started it up again. One more page printed out, before it informed me that it was out of ink. I knew that couldn't be the case, because I had replaced the ink cartridge the day before. I fiddled with it, tried it again, and finally called the IT guy, Butchy.
Butchy hates people. I can't really blame him - the only time people here talk to him is when something breaks, so all he ever hears are complaints. Maybe he hates people because they call him "Butchy”; I sure would. But that is how he was introduced to me, and I don't even know what his real name is. I have found that he can be funny, with a quick sarcastic wit that rarely shows. To me, anyone who disdains the general public and hates this company is a comrade in arms.
Butchy lumbered up to my desk, panting. He's a big guy, which I am guessing comes from sitting around all day at his desk, playing computer games and waiting to be complained to.
"What's the problem, Lynette?" He huffed at me, glaring as though I had purposely messed up the machine so as to interrupt him. I have a theory that working here makes people less pleasant. Perhaps he hasn't recognized our comrade status.
"The printer says that it is out of ink, but . . ."
"So put a new cartridge in!" His eyes rolled so far I feared they'd pop out.
"BUT", I continued, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice, "I changed the cartridge yesterday before I left, and I've only printed about 20 pages. It had jammed right before that, so I thought that might have something to do with it." I rushed to get all of that out before I was interrupted again, and was rewarded with a grunt and the almost obscene slogan on the back of Butchy's T-shirt as he began fidgeting with the stubborn printer. I leaned against the wall of my cubicle, while he made an adjustment, tried to print, and began the process over again. After several unsuccessful attempts, he began taking pieces of it out and setting them on my desk, which is when my boss arrived and my phone rang simultaneously.
I mumbled an "excuse me" to my boss since the red button on the phone indicated an internal call. Someone missing a report? I picked it up - "This is Lynette, can you hold a moment please?" A male voice said yes and I set the phone back down and looked expectantly at Mrs. Cooper, my boss.
"Lynette, what is going on here?" She demanded, making a sweeping gesture to my desk. "People are waiting for their reports". In my head, my response went something like and that is exactly why I broke the printer you old bat! but, putting on my sweetest smile, I replied, "Butchy is fixing my printer" as any idiot can see!
"Hmph. Well. Try to keep this sort of thing to a minimum." She stalked away, before I could ask her exactly how I would keep the printer from breaking, since it was more than 7 years old and "there isn't room in the budget for such things". Butchy actually chuckled. I grinned ruefully, and said "Guess I'll have to do my 'printer health voodoo dance' tonight." He laughed again, and it made me feel a little better.
The feeling lasted about 15 seconds, because that was when he gave some piece of the printer a nice hard tug, and it broke with a sharp crack! Toner flew everywhere, especially all down my dress. Damn it!If only I hadn't answered the phone, I'd've been on the other side of the desk! Which reminded me, I hadn't picked up that poor guy I'd put on hold. The button still flashed, and knowing that a few more minutes wouldn't help my dress that much anyway, I grabbed the receiver and tried to keep a calm voice.
“I am sorry to have kept you on hold, how can I help you?” I tried wiping some of the toner up with a tissue from the box on my desk.
“Ah, Lynette, " the unfamiliar voice said, "I can see you're busy, I'll talk to you later." There was a click before I could disagree. Well, he's right, I thought and turned to head to the ladies room. Butchy offered what seemed like a sincere apology. I accepted, and started on my way.
Halfway there (just past the office manager's desk) I stopped cold. That man said he could see I was busy? But no one can see into my cubicle, I am at the very back, in a corner. The cubicle across from me, the only one someone could see into mine from without standing on a desk, was empty, filled with broken chairs and discarded computer pieces. Maybe he meant, he could tell I was busy. That made sense. But it still bothered me.
Assessing the damage in the privacy of the ladies room, I could see that no hope remained for this dress. Most of the front was now black, in an irregular, shimmering blob that still oozed a bit around the edges, growing slightly larger as I watched. Futile though it was, I grabbed a fistful of paper towels and mopped at it, succeeding only in removing the shininess, and leaving a dull, wet black spot.
My luck, in came Jeanie, the nosy office manager. She clucked and sympathetically asked, “Oh my, what happened to you?”
“Just a printer problem, Jeanie.” I scrubbed harder at the stain, wishing both it and she would just vanish.
“Well, you know, soda water works on red wine, or is that white? And I heard salt gets out stains, but I don’t really know about that. I use one of those spray-ons, myself, but, honey, I think that may not do it in this case. So, where you filling the ink or something?”
“No, Butchy was fixing it and something broke.”
“Well, Butchy isn’t the most graceful thing, is he?” She actually snorted in the middle of her snide chortle. “But he means well, the poor thing. He might get some self confidence if he went on a date now and then, but you know those computer geeks . . .” Her voice faded under my annoyed frown.
She must have taken the hint, because she went into a stall. When she emerged, she asked, “Do you want help with that?” I looked up. Ready to answer in my normal sarcastic way, but saw the sincerity on her face on swallowed my words.
“No, thanks, I think it’s a lost cause. I’m just going to wait in here until it’s at least dry.”
“Okay, then, sorry.” Jeanie walked out the door. And something in the mirror flashed. I looked up – nothing, again. Giving up with a resigned sigh I looked into the mirror to assess the damage.
This time there was something behind me.
Definitely something. Something large and transparent but with every color mixed in. It was moving, not going anywhere, just a fluid, natural flowing inside its constantly changing borders. I stared at it for a moment, before deciding that it had to be some sort of trick of the light, a reflection from the toner or something caught in the light fixture. I spun around to look behind me, hoping nothing was there, but somehow knowing it would be and when I did see it, hovering before me, I could feel my heart drop. I was trembling, not sure why I should be scared, except that nothing that appears in the mirror behind you can ever be good.
The thing itself didn’t frighten me as much as the fact that I could feel it. Every part of me could sense the presence of this ominous being. It pulled at me, drained something vital and indescribable from me, and I thought for a moment that I might faint. I wanted to touch it, but I couldn’t summon the strength, or maybe I was just too scared.
It spoke. A sound vibrating through me, coming not from the apparition, but from everywhere.
“Lynnette”. Just my name, and it terrified me as nothing had. There was no denying now that it was real, not some trick of the light. I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I just stared, and trembled and vaguely wondered what would happen if someone came in.
“Are you ready for your life to end?” Not threatening. Just calm, matter-of-fact. I could barely process the words. When I did, cold calm dread filled me, and I stopped shaking. I could only assume that I was too terrified to even feel the fear any more. It was an emotion beyond the human ability to sense.
“What?” Not the most ingenious reply, I know, but it was the only word I could form.
“You must decide if you are ready for your life to end. We will meet again, and then you will decide.” The being flickered out of existence and left me alone, covered in toner, in a well lit ladies room.
posted by Jami | 6:41 PM
3 Comments:
Oh, so Death comes as the end.
Sorry.
Anyway, I like it so far!
Did I ever tell you the little black and white blobs of shapes that I'm forever catching at the corner of my eye? Yeah.
Good start. You got more?
In other words, I like it, but as I tend to make all sort fo editor-like comments if I'm not really brief, I try to stick to really brief!
More?
I'm all creeped out... and I like it. :) More please.
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