Page 50 of On Your Life

My apartment is spotless. There’s something about coming home to a clean house and climbing into a freshly made bed that makes sleep feel ten times better, so I’ve never been the type to skimp on keeping things clean.

I used to clean when I was upset or angry. There’s something about repetitive tasks that have a way of calming my mind when it gets too loud. Tonight, it works. The serenity settling over me is exactly what I needed after the news today.

I feel bad for being so angry about the death of my lawyer, like somehow it was his fault for dying in a car accident. It wasn’t. None of this was his fault.

First thing tomorrow, I’ll call the office and check in with his secretary so I can send my condolences.

Embarrassment floods through me and I hate it. I hate how harsh I can be sometimes. How quickly negative thoughts form before I stop to consider someone else.

I just want to be out of here. And that’s not his fault either. It’s the fucking court system’s.

If only I hadn’t gone out that night. They never would have seen me on the bar cameras. They wouldn’t have had the chance to see what looked like some sort of “heated” argument when, in reality, I simply didn’t feel like dealing with some thick-headed douchebag.

The prosecution became obsessed with that video. They twisted every second of it into something it wasn’t, throwing around accusations like they were facts.

They acted like we were jilted lovers instead of two complete strangers who happened to cross paths. Had he not followed me when I left, and continued to look for me, I don’t think I’d be in the situation that I’m in now.

Even my own coworkers pushed the narrative that I somehow had something to do with his death. It’s something that I still can’t fully wrap my head around.

The bristles of the small brush scratch against the baseboard, the grating sound almost like nails dragging across a chalkboard. I grit my teeth and keep going. At least the grime disappears beneath every stroke. One little victory at a time.

I almost feel sorry for Fox. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose my best friend. I go to her with every problem I have in life. Even something as simple as the ridiculous price of groceries deserved an hour long vent session about the shitty economy.

Losing that would be world shattering. I’d have to change everything about my day to day life because there are so many tiny spaces that she fills without even realizing it. The thought settles heavily in my chest.

Then, out of nowhere, the small hairs on the back of my neck stand. Every instinct in my body screams at once to get up and run.

I’m not alone.

I try to busy myself, pretending I don’t notice the shift in the air. I keep scrubbing the baseboard like there isn’t a black cloud hanging directly overhead, threatening to crush me beneath it. Even the silence feels different now.

I turn slightly to reach further down the wall and stop completely. There, lurking in the shadows, is the reason.

A large body fills the width of the doorway. My eyes travel upward from a pair of black boots, past the uniform stretched over a body that seems unfairly built for it, until they land on his fucking smirking face.

He’s leaning against the doorframe like he has nowhere better to be. Like he hasn’t spawned out of nowhere and scared ten years off my life. His casual demeanor makes my pulse spike.

I clear my throat loudly and wait for him to say something. He doesn’t. His grin just widens.

“I’m not done yet,” I say flatly, turning back to the wall to continue to scrub.

He pushes off the door frame and disappears. My heart skips a beat at the small win. Maybe he just had to check in and got some sick satisfaction out of watching me sweat my ass off for zero dollars.

Whatever.

A few seconds pass and then I hear it. The rustling of plastic bags carries down the hallway and I know that my evening is about to become a lot less therapeutic.

The carpet burns against my knees as I rush over toward the door and reach for the handle. I’d rather deal with the consequences of barricading myself in here tomorrow than face whatever the fuck this psychopath has come up with today.

Before the latch can catch, the door smacks me in the face. I’m suddenly free falling and the cheap carpet does almost nothing to soften the impact.

My skin prickles and that horrible sensation of bugs crawling across me takes over. I look around and freeze.

All over the office, and me, are daisies. They’re everywhere.

The floral scent hits me so hard it nearly makes me gag. Every square inch of the floor is covered in delicate white petals. Some are crushed beneath my body, others are clinging to my clothes.

It’s almost beautiful. If you ignore the fact that I’m lying in the middle of it like a fucking funeral decoration.