Business of Intrigue: Part I
fictional short story collection by Tess A. Plaza
Tortured and alone, I looked around the room at the shattered glass illuminated by the waning moonlight that streamed in through the cracked window. I snatched up the rolled up paper on the nightstand and haphazardly snorted the last of the coke. A stream of blood trickled out of my left nostril and I absentmindedly wiped it away with my sleeve. A sigh escaped my lungs and I surveyed the room one last time. Bodies littered the couches and the floor. Their open, unblinking eyes sent a shiver down my spine. As I closed the door, I captured one last look at the forever haunting scene.
I stumbled into the hallway and pulled my baseball cap down further until the tip of my nose was barely visible. I headed down the stairwell and into the bright, music filled, lobby. I practically fell into the cool April air as the doorman waited not-so-discreetly for a tip. As I sauntered through streets I felt a burning sensation in my eyes. Blurred sights of headlights and storefronts flash-flooded my vision. I jogged the fifteen blocks back to my street level apartment. I swung the gate open and collapsed on my foyer as the deadbolt clicked behind me.
The golden light filtering through the living room, curtains gently nudged me awake. Dark roast coffee wafted in from the kitchen. Heavy footsteps waltzed around in beat with melodic whistling. I rubbed my eyes and flattened my hair. I rose up from the ground and adjusted my wrinkled, bloodstained clothing. “Hey, hun, you hungry?” called Brian from kitchen. “I made eggs”. I leaned against the doorframe and watched him whip a bowl of eggs with a wooden-handled whisk. “Wow, looks like someone had rough night,” he said glancing up from the eggs to see me watching him. I smiled and sipped on the mug of coffee Brian poured for me with the apt writing: “Good morning Sunshine”.
As I padded over to the dining table in my socks I hoped that my shoes had made it home from the night before. A weird thought I know, but I love my shoe collection. They were expensive ones too, paid for by my old company. An all too familiar sigh escaped my lungs. Brian carefully brought over the plated eggs and placed them on the table. We ate in silence broken up occasionally by the morning dove’s song drifting through the open screen door. Brian flipped thoughtfully through the Sunday paper as I scrolled through a barrage of emails on my iPhone. Our separate morning activities were interrupted by a loud knock on the door.
