《Writer’s Block》 CHAPTER ONE As Joanne Galbraith rested her head against the uncomfortably flat pillow behind her, she could not help but wonder if standing and heading home was the wisest decision to make at that moment. The empty waiting room, warm and illuminated with soft, welcoming light, looked distinctly old and needed renovation. It had a musty odor, strongly reminiscent of the elderly¡¯s homes ¡ª a feeling heightened by the large houseplant in the corner and its cream-colored stand (decorated with muted brown patterns and, disgustingly enough, all but buried under a thick coat of dust). There was drab wallpaper, dark brown contrasting curtains, and a wide, thin rug over vinyl wood flooring. She noted all this absently, having long since given in to the pull of boredom as she waited for the receptionist to return, periodically adjusting herself on the itchy, bland, cream-colored sham of a sofa. However, despite her misgivings about the clinic, she knew going there was preferable to her usual routine. Where before she could at least stare at the white screen of her laptop, document open, and features scrunched in concentration as the cursor repeatedly blinked in front of her, these days, she could no longer muster the will or energy to move, content to lay flat against her office¡¯s floor, her face smashed against the tiles and nose breathing in dead skin and the dusty scents of long-rotted food with each deep, weary inhalation. Some days, stories flowed from her like rapids, and it was easy to tap away her magic in reams. On other days, it came like an old river, a slow yet steady outpour of words. Now, it came like cold molasses, as if the network of nerves and ligaments that had connected her brain to her hand, allowing words to flow so liberally, so generously, for as long as she could remember, had been blocked. She could spend days hunched over her desk without writing a single word, half-finished cups of sweet iced tea, and take-out boxes littering her work area. She had experienced occasional bouts of writer¡¯s block (as all writers were wont to do), but things were different this time. It was almost like her brain had switched off on her, making it nigh impossible to come up with new ideas for the past year. At first, she presumed she was experiencing burnout. Before the development, she had been churning out stories almost quarterly. Necessary for relevancy and maximizing profit, her agent had said. Stupid bit¡ª A chime wounded and ¡ª after a quick search through her purse yielded her phone ¡ª she leaned forward in place as she thumbed through the latest notifications. One, in particular, caught her attention; a response to a question she had posed on Quora. ¡°Mine isn''t as severe as yours, thank God,¡± David G. Cooke had written. ¡°But what usually helps me get over it is taking my dog for a walk outside or eating something sweet to get my mind going. Try and see if it''s the same for you.¡± Good advice, no doubt, but they were among the first things she had tried (even going as far as to buy a dog), and ¡ª if it was not obvious ¡ª they had all failed. Her only consolation was that her efforts did not result in her account ending in the red, though, with how things were going, it was only a matter of time before it did. Huffing something close to a frustrated groan, she fought the sudden urge to throw her phone against the nearest wall and instead settled for rubbing the bridge of her nose with her free hand. Then, she sighed and, in need of a distraction, made to scroll through her apps mindlessly. However, as if on cue, the receptionist returned with a clipboard and pen, heels thudding lightly in her wake. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. ¡°Please fill this in for me.¡± The woman dropped the form on the small wooden coffee table and, with a brief smile ¡ª which almost seemed to be an afterthought ¡ª disappeared again. The phone immediately went back into her purse, and the bag to her side on the sofa so she could pick up the clipboard and place it on her lap. Face cocked to the side and a hand drumming an offbeat tempo with the nondescript pen on her cheek, Joanne read the first lines printed on the paper, taking a moment to think about what to write before doing as instructed. She skimmed the pen across the page, its end bobbing with each stroke as she wrote her details and purpose of visit in the provided spaces. Done with it, she buttoned her suit jacket, smoothed out her office-appropriate skirt, and crossed the short distance to the front desk. The receptionist had not yet returned, but she knew it was best to stand and move about the place. She had enough experience with muscle cramps to know to avoid remaining seated for long. Grateful for its height, she leaned against the desk and ¡ª after resting the clipboard on its marble surface ¡ª folded her hands and placed them beneath her chin. Her phone was still in her purse, so she decided to pass the time by taking in more of her surroundings. On the wall hung portraits of random people who looked about the room with happy smiles and different poses. She wondered if they were customers or employees, though the more she thought about it, the former was the more likely of the two. While combing through a buried writer¡¯s forum on Reddit, she stumbled upon information on the clinic. Someone had shared their experience with writer¡¯s block and how they overcame it there, but not many details were written about the methods used. Still, due to the similarities with her situation, it caught her attention, and, in a last-ditch effort driven solely by desperation, she ignored the red flags and looked up the clinic. To her amazement, although there were few reviews, the vast majority of them were positive. And despite the possibility of them being orchestrated (to trick unsuspecting people) nagging at the back of her mind, this, more than anything, made her decide to visit the place. As she stared at the pictures, brought out of her musings by the opening of one of the doors, those same reviews made her reconsider her belief: maybe, just maybe, they were indeed genuine, and the portraits were proof of that. She looked to the side to see the receptionist poking her head out, loose black ponytail shading half-lidded blue eyes and softly moving jaw. The distinctive sound of chewing gum snapping and popping was heard, causing Joanne to scrunch her nose slightly. How unprofessional. ¡°Please hand me the form. I''ll be back shortly to tell you when Davies will see you.¡± ¡°Excuse me, I¡ª¡± Unable to get her words out in time, she watched, open-mouthed and mid-sentence, as the door was closed. Slowly, her mouth followed suit, even as loud expletives threatened to escape them, and she crossed her arms at her chest with a huff. Heading home was really looking like the wisest choice to make. Unconsciously, her feet began tapping against the floor, and a frown slowly worked its way onto her face as slow-moving seconds turned into equally slow-moving minutes. Fortunately ¡ª or unfortunately, depending on how one looked at it ¡ª before she could wear a hole in the floor or call it a day as a testament to her irritation, the door opened again. But this time, its hinges groaned as it swung wide, with the reason of said irritation holding it in place and beckoning her to come, dressy-top ruffling with the motion. ¡°Davies will see you now.¡± Breathing a sigh that relaxed her tensed features, Joanne nodded curtly and ¡ª after making a quick turn to get her purse ¡ª walked into the adjoining room, wanting nothing more than to get the upcoming meeting over before more of her precious patience was tested. CHAPTER TWO The door was closed behind her without warning, startling, and ¡ª after she became aware she had drawn the attention of the other occupant in the room ¡ª causing her cheeks to burn. In a bid to regain her composure and prevent further embarrassment, she cleared her throat and smoothed down her clothes so as not to appear unkempt after that display. Her life might be a mess, but it would be bad form to appear that way publicly (even if the action was irrational). Be professional, her mind whispered, and she straightened automatically, plastering on a smile artificially bright and brittle. ¡°I''m usually not one for formalities,¡± Mr. Davies said once the initial greeting phrases were over and she was seated, her purse by her side, hands clasped on her lap, and back as straight as it could be on the soft armchair. Whether the man had taken notice of her brief moment of discomposure or not, she did not know. His expression had remained blank. ¡°So, if you¡¯d be alright with it, I¡¯d suggest we go by our first names here. I¡¯m Davies. Can I call you Joanne?¡± ¡°I,¡± she paused. While it was not what she was used to nor wanted, the man seemed to be a top-level manager in the clinic, so it would be in her best interest to follow his lead. ¡°I do not mind that, sir. My name is Joanne¡±¡ªshe spied a familiar clipboard on his desk¡ª¡°but I am sure you already know that.¡± He rewarded her with a smile, polite smile, and adjusted his seat slightly. ¡°Can I get you anything to drink? Tea? Coffee?¡± ¡°Tea is preferable, sir.¡± She did a quick assessment of him: casually but neatly dressed, with tidy grooming ¡ª at least one person seemed to be taking their job seriously. ¡°Three sugar sachets.¡± ¡°Ah, a sweet tooth.¡± His brown eyes flitted up to meet weathered grey, amusement evident in the crease at the corners before they lowered, and steady hands poured the black liquid into two mugs. One sugar sachet went into one, while three went into the other, and he stood, walking around his desk (past the live plants and colorful artwork) to place the latter in front of her on the center table. ¡°Thank you.¡± Nodding at her words, he turned smoothly on the flooring and quickly returned to his seat, form briefly outlined by the light coming in from the large window behind him, which overlooked the not-so-scenic road. She picked up the half-full mug with both hands and, enjoying the warmth seeping through her bone, held it to her face and closed his eyes to breathe in deeply. Its steam ¡ª accented with a hint of something floral ¡ª rose and spread across her face, warming her nose and cheeks. Opening her eyes, she lowered the mug to rest comfortably at chest level, resting her elbows on her knees; she was leaning forward now, her gaze shifting from the tea to the man, silently watching as he stirred the content of his mug and took a sip. ¡°So, is this your first time meeting with a psychotherapist?¡± The question, although basic and seemingly random, was a good one. It was always good to find out if the client had any prior experience with therapy (of whatever kind), to understand whether it had been helpful ¡ª and, if not, why, as that could affect any therapeutic attempt. She shook her head. It was not. ¡°Then, you must know how this works.¡± It was not a question, but she chose to nod in affirmation. ¡°Should you decide to be admitted to the clinic, we¡¯ll help with your writer¡¯s block. Our goal is to help you reach your goals without passing undue judgment, criticism, or instruction. We¡¯ll discuss your problem and discover its course, but at your own pace. Remember, we¡¯re merely guides, not teachers.¡± This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. For lack of any other response, she kept quiet and raised her tea to her mouth, blowing softly at it, then slowly sipping. ¡°Before we move to payment plans, might I ask you this: why¡­ why here? We aren¡¯t exactly popular.¡± She resisted the urge to shrug. The action was too casual. ¡°I guess¡­ Desperation. I stumbled upon the clinic¡¯s name by chance, and well, If there is a chance this is the answer to my problems, I am willing to try it.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not surprising ¡ª most of our clients happened upon us similarly.¡± Even as she put down the mug, she didn''t take her eyes off Davies. ¡°But there was one thing they all had in common.¡± A pause, most likely for dramatic effect, but although entirely juvenile and unexpected from someone of his caliber, any other day, it would not be enough to ruffle her feathers. However, it seemed there was something about the place that made losing her composure easy because, as the silence extended, her thoughts began creeping onto her features. To her growing chagrin, his reaction could not be more opposite; the quirk of his lips betrayed his amusement. She would have called him out on it, but the instruction to be professional still echoed in her mind, so she swallowed the disapproval and bit out: ¡°What?¡± His expression instantly became blank, and with a cringe, she realized there was more heat in the word than was appropriate. And to add to her horror, before she could do damage control, the man continued. ¡°Skepticism,¡± he said, his dry tone another sign he was affected by her rudeness. ¡°But in the end, they all become believers¡­¡± He leaned forward in his seat, and even if she wanted to, she could not look away from him. The intensity of his gaze held her in place. ¡°You may doubt now, but don''t worry, after we turn those mental blocks into creative building blocks, you will also believe.¡± ¡°How?¡± The word escaped her lips without conscious volition, soft, halting, hopeful ¡ª almost like a plea, the hysteria in it not feigned. ¡°How will you do that?¡± ¡°That remains to be seen.¡± Her hands came to rest on her knees, twitchy fingers lightly playing with the hem of her skirt. The mystery was unnecessary. ¡°What do you mean?¡± The plush leather seat crumpled under Davies¡¯ weight as he shifted back, crossing his legs in one fluid motion. They couldn''t have looked more different if they tried. ¡°Writer¡¯s block is unlike any other condition,¡± he said, eventually. ¡°Where others have a set prognosis and treatment, due to various underlying factors, no two clients suffering from it can undergo the same treatment.¡± She blinked, confusion in the knit of her brows. ¡°I¡­ I do not think that is¡ª¡± cutting herself off, she blinked again and not-so-eloquently breathed, ¡°Huh?¡± ¡°In this clinic, treatment is personalized.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± she simply said, not knowing how else to respond. The hot wisps of the tea struggled for its existence, sitting between them like a metaphorical wall. The silence stretching, she picked up the mug and swirled its content as she stared out the window. People in different attire and walks of life lined both pathways; most seemed to be rushing from their workplaces or nearby stores and restaurants, picking up smokes, dinner, or a drink before heading to their place. All the while, cars busily honked their way down the road, filling the air with the squeals and hums of their tires. She turned back to the man, watching him take out a bound document from the stack on his desk and stand, hands on either side to push himself up with a low exhale. In a move reminiscent of the receptionist¡¯s, he bent to place the set of papers neatly on the table before her. ¡°That contains the necessary information on the clinic and an important questionnaire,¡± he said, still looming over her. ¡°If you decide to go ahead with us, complete the questionnaire and pay the fees in the account disclosed within. Once you do so and return the document, implying informed consent, we will get started with your treatment.¡± She nodded her understanding, picking up the document and running her hand down its spine. Its colorful cover offered her a glimmer of hope, despite it being in her best interest to stifle the feeling. Could the clinic really bring about her much-need salvation? Sucking an unsteady breath, she let it out quickly. Maybe it was a mistake to trust in a place where professionalism was the norm, and things did sound too good to be true, but she couldn''t help it. Her future as a writer depended on her faith, and after so long wading in the ether filled with disappointment and doubt, she was willing to believe and hope that the clinic was the light that formed a rope anchoring her to the chance of a cure. CHAPTER THREE Arriving at her street later than she would have liked, Joanne stepped out of a bus and glanced down the long stretch of road. She stuck out quite prominently in the dim and dingy lighting of the lamp posts as her appearance was anything but dark, yet she ignored the numbing shiver of exposure running down her spine and squared her shoulders. Then, taking a deep breath, she steeled her features and began walking. Her long stride quickened ever so slightly, spurred on by the chill in the air and the silence of the street. She pulled her jacket tighter around her torso before blowing her breath between cupped hands and rubbing them against the other. Despite the soreness from wearing heels, she hurried along as best as she could. The night was far colder than it had any right to be, especially, but she was close enough to her apartment to be able to bear it. On a positive note, the frigid air seemed to keep some of her exhaustion at bay, so she didn''t mind it much. The bus drove past, its headlights illuminating her figure for a brief second, her long shadow towering against the dark buildings adjacent to her before fading into the distant distance. Its departure had kicked up the litter of leaves that had fallen onto the asphalt, along with said frigid air, and caused her to reconsider her thought; she minded it very much. She wrapped her arms around herself and, gritting her teeth, tried futilely to stop them from chattering relentlessly and uncontrollably and herself from shaking. Sighting her apartment complex a few blocks away, she stumbled in her haste, body hunched to protect herself from the cold, and despite the twinge from her ankle, she was filled with an overwhelming giddiness that almost sent her scrambling over each other. Nothing could compare to coming home, especially after such an emotionally exhausting outing. She shuffled up the walkway to the large double doors of the nondescript building. Halfway there, she caught herself dragging her feet and, in the interest of keeping her heels in acceptable condition, made the conscious effort to straighten herself up. This would not mean a great deal, being that she was, at most, five steps from the doorway, but her presently weary state of mind wasn''t in the best position for long-term considerations. Retrieving her keycard and tapping it on the reader embedded into the wall, she entered, allowing herself a moment of gratitude for the lighting as she basked in the warmth and glow of the small entryway. Though tenants arriving late was a daily occurrence, and the entrances and halls were habitually kept reasonably well-lit into the night, she was not the type to take the little things for granted. A flight of stairs later, she was dragging her feet again. Either she took no notice, or it was a distant realization, one she was not concerned enough to focus on, as she trudged down the hall to her door without pausing once ¡ª the standard buzz of speech and other indistinct sounds from the neighboring apartments faintly audible, even to her muzzy head. Her apartment was at the end, which gave her a bit of privacy, another thing she was grateful for as God knew the rumor mill had enough fuel already to keep spinning. She didn''t want her problems added to the mix. Internally, she cursed at herself for forgetting to take out her keyring when she returned her keycard to her purse and proceeded with the requisite search. It didn''t take long to find the little gray key, and after unlocking the door, she pushed the door open ¡ª and was immediately assaulted by a furry tan-colored missile. Under the sudden force and weight of her keeshond, it was no surprise that she dropped her purse and stepped back unsteadily. Luckily for her, the dog was not fully grown, so she was able to steady herself before she fell. ¡°Wh¡­¡± she tried to speak around the dog¡¯s enthusiastic greeting. She had not only the tongue to contend with but also his breath; it gusted against the skin of her face in hot bursts. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. After a while, the dog settled down in her arms, thanks to a calm demeanor developed over time. Sighing, she bent to pick up the purse and entered her dimly-lit apartment, delicately standing on one leg to close the door behind her with the other. ¡°Why are you still awake, Wolffe?¡± she mumbled into his fur while bending slightly to the side to unfasten her heels, letting them thump down against her running shoes in the corner. ¡°Are you hungry?¡± A bark was his answer, ears back and tail wagging furiously, and she rolled her eyes, though not unkindly. ¡°Of course you are. Come on then, let mummy fix something up for you before she crawls into bed.¡± She dropped her purse on the closest sofa and walked into the kitchen, briefly stopping to flick at the light switch by the door. Her exhaustion was forgotten temporarily in the face of her best friend¡¯s needs. Light bloomed, but with practiced ease, she ignored the blotches in her vision and dropped the dog gently on the floor. His peculiarly gray fur contrasted nicely with the white tiles as he bounded around her, barking before stopping by his food bowl, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth and tiny paws tapping incessantly. She chuckled softly at his excitable nature and walked to the cabinet, wearing a small smile. The smile turned into a thoughtful frown less than a minute later as she gazed upon the varied selection of high-quality wet and dry foods. While there was nothing wrong with either of them, she knew she had to be mindful of the amount her dog ate in a day. Too much, and he can quickly become obese and sick. Shutting the cabinets, she made a decision. A tailor-made meal would have been ideal, but it was too late to order one now, and if she remembered correctly ¡ª and she checked to confirm ¡ª there were none in the fridge. Wolffe would have to make do with what was meant to be her dinner: frozen homemade meat, vegetables, and rice. She was not hungry, and even if she was, she did not think she had enough strength to feed herself. Exhaustion has slowly crept its way back without her knowing, and, besides, it was better the food went to the dog than the trash can. Waste not, want not, as her mother regularly said. Carefully, she poured it into his rather large bowl, adding a few discreet supplements for that extra nutritional support. His water bowl lay beside it, not empty, so she nodded and moved back, satisfied. That was the cue the dog needed, it seemed, as his upper body crouched low to the floor, and he did his name justice with haste. Shaking her head at the scene, she turned from him. ¡°I¡¯ll be in the room if you need me.¡± There was no answering bark this time, which was unexpected, so she paid the dog no more heed and left the kitchen. A warm shower left her no less sleepy but considerably more comfortable, especially dressed in the snuggliest pajamas she could find on short notice. Her outfit was laid out for the next day, but just as she was ready to sleep, she remembered her purse was still on her sofa. ¡°Fuck me,¡± she groaned and sluggishly, with her limbs protesting each movement, made her way to her living room and back. The loud ringtone of her favorite song blared through the air, piercing the tranquillity of her apartment. She squinted at the phone in her hands, bright light burning her eyes to see the contact name, Agent Bitch, and hesitated to answer. It was almost midnight, and there were already two missed calls, so it could not be a drunk phone call. However, though she had dreaded hearing from the woman ever since her writer¡¯s block began, something pushed her to press on the accept button. She turned on the speakerphone mode and mumbled, ¡°Hello?¡± There was a scrambling sound, then; ¡°Joanne?¡± Courtesy dictated she not be rude to her superior, but¡­ ¡°I''m sorry it has come to this, but my hands are tied,¡± the woman continued. ¡°You have a month to figure yourself out or¡ª¡± ¡­she was too tired to deal with the bullshit. She flopped gracelessly onto the bed, expending her last bit of energy to throw the phone out of her field of vision and pull a blanket over herself ¡ª and Wolffe, she noted distantly with a contented sigh against his fur. The dog had draped himself on her side just as she lay down. A not-so-distant part of her worried she might have done something she would regret, but the feeling was overshadowed momentarily by the sudden thought she might wake up the following day with an incurable case of bedhead. An inane thing to worry about, she knew, so she was thankful she was already asleep before she could give the prospect any real consideration. CHAPTER FOUR Somewhere amidst the blissful blur of half-formed thoughts, Joanne¡¯s brain properly registered that she had woken up. Her alarm had not gone off yet nor a wet tongue slobber over her face, so she contentedly rolled over to her other side. This action, unluckily, meant that she was directly in the path of the sunlight clipping in through the windows. It pierced her eyelids, and she flinched, squeezing them tighter. After a brief pause, the abnormality of the situation dawned on her. If it was not time to wake up, why was the sun out and about? She frowned and threw her hands away from her person, deft fingers questing around for her phone. Finding it, she brought it up, shielding her face from the bright glare while checking the time. And for a moment, she reckoned her heart had stopped. Then, not one second later, she was hurtling out of her bed with frantic haste. An apt term, she supposed, as she had drastically misjudged the trajectory of her entire lower half. Which was, annoyingly enough, still wrapped up in her blanket. She would have to worry about her bruised hip later, she decided, huffing a sign and scrambling to her feet after freeing herself. She had forgotten to set her morning alarm and, judging from the fact Wolffe had slept through all that, he was still knackered ¡ª he did stay up later than usual to wait for her ¡ª so she was left nearly an hour late to start her morning routine. Short of skipping her jog, shower, and breakfast, she was unavoidably arriving at Costa late. Pulling her outfit on and rushing out of her apartment, a juice box in hand and three slices of bread held between her teeth, she felt like she was living the opening to a teen rom-com. Her long, black hair, which she had not been able to find the time to tie into the usual twist-back high ponytail, was hastily shoved underneath a backpack containing her laptop and purse. Managing her routine jog with her trip to meet her friend was a good compromise. Time was beyond the point that she would label it of the essence. Stopping for traffic flow a few blocks away from her apartment complex, she slumped against a bus stop, panting slightly with a hand pressed on her side. She should not have been eating as she was running because, as expected, she was suffering. She thought she knew better. Gritting her teeth, she ignored the concerned looks from the passers-by and continued on her way. Her friend was taking time out of his busy schedule to meet with her. He would understand if she was late ¡ª he knew she was a right mess most days ¡ª but it would be a disservice to the history they shared if she did not try her hardest to be on time. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. Just shy of a minute before the agreed time, she stopped at Costa¡¯s front door and straightened up to the best of her ability, settling a hand to her chest to calm her pounding heart. No doubt, she had pushed herself harder in the past, yet, for some reason, this time felt more taxing. Maybe it was the emotional weight the run carried or something equally cliche? As she made her way past the covered patio, with tables a respectful distance apart, she shook her head to get rid of the assumption and worked off the adrenaline in her veins. Through the transparent glass door, a blanket of warm air enveloped her, swirling with the rich promise of aromatic dreams. She inhaled deeply, the cafe tables in their deep brown and the ambiance of friendly chatter coaxing an inner smile that warmed from within. It was a little wonder her friend had chosen the place as their meetup spot: it was a refuge, a slice of heaven, a place she could shed her worries and enjoy her contemplations at leisure. Said friend was always early, so It was not hard to find him as he was sitting at their usual table in the corner, which should, in all seriousness, be permanently reserved for them. Clad in a t-shirt that strained against his lean chest and shoulders, dark dreadlocks, and a five o¡¯clock shadow, he cut an impressive figure despite his casual wear ¡ª and despite it being years already, she still felt a pang in her heart. He pushed his glasses up her nose and seemed to check his phone briefly before looking around, dropping both elbows on the table, and within seconds, his gaze landed on hers. He smiled and waved to call her. She nodded with a similar smile and, instead of walking to him immediately, moved to the counter. Tea came first. Behind her, she could almost feel the sarky roll of his eyes. Though all in good fun, she knew. Feeling the warm cup in her hand and almost tasting the alluring scent of her English breakfast tea, she finally walked to the table. Placing the brew down opposite his as he stood, she pulled him into an embrace he reciprocated immediately and tightly. ¡°Nathan,¡± she breathed. Her friend rested his chin on her, a familiar position. ¡°Did you miss me this much?¡± Releasing her grip from him and pushing away, she smacked a fist against his chest. ¡°Of course I did, stupid. It''s been long.¡± He laughed as he caught her hand on the second attempt. ¡°I guess it has,¡± he said, sinking into his chair, and she followed suit, settling her backpack on her lap. ¡°How have you been?¡± ¡°You know¡­ the usual.¡± ¡°The usual?¡± He arched an eyebrow at her, repeating her words in a deep, firm voice. It was the kind that made people swoon, and if things had been different, she would have. Now, it only made the pang more noticeable. ¡°Yeah, the usual.¡± It was not as if she was being secretive on purpose. She wanted to talk about her problems, but that could come later. His took precedence at the moment, and she said as such. ¡°What do you mean, Ann?¡± He asked, and rather than reply with an answer, she reached across the table to touch his hands and posed her question: ¡°How have things been?¡± CHAPTER FIVE Joanne would not outright ask. Not a particularly healthy habit, but that was the way it was between the two when it came to personal matters. It was best to ask roundabout questions ¡ª questions that had a deeper meaning; like how asking ¡®how things were¡¯ was a way to ask about his upcoming wedding and his fiance, who, if she remembered correctly, was in her second trimester. He was staring at her across the table, between them, chipped Formica and two cups, their content cooling. Like he always did (as stated earlier), he looked casual and immaculate at the same time ¡ª but his face looked ragged and tired. The things he was dealing with must not have been easy. She sighed. Five minutes or less at the table and part of her already wanted to comfort him, grab his hands, anything. But no. That ship had sailed a long time ago. She closed her eyes and he was gone; opened them and he was there again, still looking at her with that hesitant smile she knew far too well. ¡°Ann,¡± he said, leaning back and stretching his arms across the back of his worn leather, an air of relaxation about him. It was so obviously forced she almost felt insulted. ¡°Things have¡ª¡± ¡°Not being good. Clearly.¡± She punctuated the last word sharply, with a defiant look at him, before sighing once more, softening her tone and features. ¡°What is wrong, Nathan? Tell me.¡± ¡°There¡¯s nothing wrong.¡± ¡°Do not lie.¡± Her gaze was locked with his as she told him, throwing his poor attempt at a smile back to him. ¡°Please.¡± ¡°I''m not lying.¡± There was a note of hurt in his voice. ¡°There¡¯s nothing wrong.¡± ¡°But you are troubled by something.¡± Not wanting to show how much his state had affected her, she settled for taking a sip of her tea. The sweetness ironically kept her grounded, but still, it was not enough to stop her hands from shaking as she gazed at his. She wanted to touch it. Hold it. ¡°Yeah,¡± he said after a while. ¡°The preparations are going great, the baby and Cece are okay, but I can¡¯t help feeling¡­worried.¡± Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. She squinted her eyes, her lips raised slightly. ¡°Worried? But I thought you said there''s nothing wrong.¡± ¡°I know it''s stupid, but¡­I don''t know. I have this feeling that something bad will happen, and I¡¯m at a loss for what to do to stop it. I''ve tried everything, Ann; from paying for the service of an accredited and renowned security institution to ensuring that all international standard security checks, measures, and procedures would be adhered to, yet¡­as much as I try, I can''t shake this feeling.¡± He stared with that flat honesty that attracted her to him, his expression naked, vulnerable. The look in his eyes placed a knife in her throat and the deep sense of uneasiness from the paranoia in his words made her body rigid. She was no professional, but there was no doubt it was no mere pre-wedding jitters. This was something more serious. ¡°I do not want anything bad to happen, Ann,¡± he softly added before going silent, covering his face with both hands. The air left her lungs all at once in an involuntary high-pitched, nervous titter ¡ª an action she immediately realized had given the wrong impression, judging by his slacked jaw and drawn eyebrows. She quickly tried to backtrack. ¡°Sorry, I know it''s not funny¡ª¡± The catchy melody of Burna Boy¡¯s Last Last blasted out from her phone, announcing she had a call. Jarring and noisy, it interrupted her explanation and piqued her curiosity in one fell swoop. She issued a quick apology, opened her bag, and reached for her phone in her purse, unsure if the call was a welcome or unwelcome intrusion. The screen showed a contact she was familiar with, and just like the previous day, she hesitated. However, common sense prevailed ¡ª along with the horror at her past actions ¡ª and, sliding her fingers across, she accepted the call. ¡°Mia,¡± she gasped out in a rush. ¡°About before, I would like to apologize for my¡ª¡± ¡°Mrs. Johnson would like to see you today.¡± The agent¡¯s tone was professional, soft-spoken yet firm with little inflection. It sent her pulse racing. ¡°Mrs. Johnson?¡± Her words came out in a strangled whisper. Why would the publishing manager want to see her on such short notice? ¡°Yes, Joanne, Mrs. Joanne,¡± came the curt reply. ¡°She¡¯s a busy woman. Do not take long to get here.¡± The call ended without prompt ¡ª which at any other time would have been rude and ruffled her feathers ¡ª but she had not even noticed; her mind was occupied with echoing her earlier thoughts. Why was she being summoned? She could think of nothing that could warrant¡ª Her internal monologue was cut off as the previous night¡¯s events sluiced into her thoughts¡­ And she could not stop the curse that escaped her lips. The situation was a mess, but there was a silver lining, she supposed; there were still some hours left until Wolffe needed to eat. Sending a small smile Nathan¡¯s way to alleviate his concern, she downed the rest of her tea and stood. Hopefully, the impending conversation would not take long and go as she feared. CHAPTER SIX As she walked through the hallway of the publishing company (which was silent and empty, although brightly lit and warm), bared glass windows lined the way, allowing a peek into the occupied offices, and the soft taps of the sole of her shoes against the tiles and the rapid beats of her heart joined together in a cacophony of nerves. She was nervous, and the realization that she was still in her ill-matched t-shirt and track shorts added an extra layer of anxiety to the abruptness of her summon. But once she neared the closed door of Mrs. Johnson¡¯s office, the woman¡¯s name painted onto the dark wood in a golden font, Joanne willed herself to calm down. Taking a second to breathe deeply through her nose and force a smile, she knocked and asked for entrance. A few moments of silence passed without a response, and a confused frown worked its way onto her lips. She knocked once more and called out: ¡°Hello.¡± A beat of hesitation, then, ¡°Mrs. Johnson?¡± There was no response, and she did not hear any footsteps from behind the door. A glance at the office windows showed that trying to peek through was futile; the interior was blocked by the blinds, and there were no flickers of shadows from between its slats or any sort of movement she could detect. She turned and looked back down the hall. There was nothing to suggest that the woman had left the building, and on the other hand, nothing to suggest the woman had come to work today. After all, her agent had given her an open-ended instruction with no specific timeframe. ¡°I am going to feel stupid if the woman is not in,¡± she grumbled, hands moving to remove her backpack and retrieve her phone. Seconds were spent digging through its pocket, which contained several smaller items alongside her phone. When she located her target, in the course of removing it, she accidentally knocked her good-luck charm out of her backpack and onto the floor. Stooping, she had just picked it up and placed it back in the pocket when a voice was heard from within the office. ¡°Come in.¡± The phrase registered in her brain, and even as relief flushed her system, her nerves immediately returned. Still, she did her best to squash the feelings down and gently swung the door open, revealing to her a large, clean, and organized room with a beautiful view of the city to boot. She idly wondered, as her gaze roved around, why offices needed floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Was it a must-have for higher-ups? Her roving gaze flitted past the desk (which was surprisingly unkempt; scattered papers and pens, overturned folders, and a laptop folded underneath them were the most notable of the mess ¡ª who was in a hurry and why?) to settle on Mrs. Johnson, who stood beside a man she had never seen. Though, to be fair, she was not in the right headspace to recognize anyone but the publishing manager at the moment. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. As the door closed behind her, the woman turned to face her. ¡°Oh, hello.¡± There was no smile on her strict features. ¡°Have a seat, I¡¯ll be with you shortly.¡± She ignored the familiar exasperation building up inside her and tried to maintain a calm facade as she did as instructed, sitting with both hands on her lap and her back straight as a ramrod. Be professional, she chided herself internally; she may not be dressed accordingly, but that did not mean she should behave otherwise. ¡°Are you sure you¡¯re up for this?¡± Joanne turned to face the speaker as their conversation was loud enough, just in time to notice the side-eye glance sent her way. ¡°I do not want a repeat of this mess.¡± ¡°Yes, ma,¡± the man replied. ¡°Good.¡± Mrs. Johnson nodded. ¡°Let''s get this meeting done quickly. We have work to do.¡± The woman walked to sit behind the desk, hands folded on its surface, while the man did the same to stand beside her seated form. Out of the corner of her eye, Joanne was able to make out his face (soft, pale, and unassuming), the well-worn Ivy University sweater, and moderately battered jeans. He looked about as unprofessional as they came, and she had to wonder what his role here was. ¡°Um¡­ Hi,¡± he said hesitantly, a hand held out, and she slowly snapped back to her senses, realizing she had been staring at him for much longer than intended. ¡°I¡¯m Dennis. Dennis Wright.¡± She was quiet, though it was not by choice as she was still within her mind. ¡°I look forward to working with you,¡± he added, and as the silence continued, she couldn''t miss the flash of something that briefly crossed her features. He slowly withdrew his hand. Finally finding it in herself to answer, but still somewhat distracted by her thoughts (especially at his curious words), she offered only a nod. Thankfully, before the silence could lapse for much longer and become awkward, Mrs. Johnson interjected herself into the conversation with all the care of a military warhead. ¡°Jonne,¡± the woman began, steepling her fingers in front of her face as a heavy stillness hung between the both of them; as if the normal breeze had taken a leave of absence in the face of the impending conversation. It was foreboding. ¡°You have always been at the top of your game: hardworking, passionate, detail-oriented, organized¡­ Professional¡±¡ªJoanne tried not to preen under the praise¡ª¡°But recently, you have been lacking.¡± She flinched, her expression immediately darkening, and bowed slightly, running sweaty palms across her exposed thighs. Mrs. Johnson continued, either unaware of the effects her words had or uncaring. ¡°At first, we were willing to overlook it, and for many words we did.¡± A pause and Joanne raised her head, eyes gradually widening in realization. ¡°However, we can no longer afford to do so¡­¡± ¡°Wait, what?¡± She almost hit her body against the desk in her haste to lean forward, hands gripping its edge in increasing fervor. The fact there was a third party witnessing the unfolding situation was lost to her. ¡°Are you firing¡ª¡± ¡°Let me finish.¡± Another flinch accompanying it this time was the retreat to her seat, mouth open, and breath coming out in barely audible pants. ¡°...but, at the same time, we can''t afford to fire you.¡± The fear took a backseat in her mind and confusion occupied its place, evidenced by the shift in her countenance. ¡°I do not understand, ma.¡± ¡°I was made to understand why you had ended the call with your agent, but if you hadn''t, all this would have been explained.¡± Guilt now battled with the confusion for dominion and she glanced away, lips firmly nestled between her teeth. ¡°Please, extend my apology to her. I was not in the right¡­mood that day.¡± The woman¡¯s gaze softened. ¡°She said as much.¡± Then, in the next second ¡ª as if it had not even occurred ¡ª she pursed her lips, lines deepening around her mouth in whisker-like patterns. ¡°Be that as it may, you will no longer be given a month to figure yourself out, but until this month-end. Until you do so, Mr. Wright will take over your position as a lead writer¡±¡ªJoanne¡¯s breath hitched¡ª¡°and failure, regardless of your value to this company, will lead to immediate termination.¡± CHAPTER SEVEN Although her tiny glimmer of hope was tempered by a heavy dose of skepticism, bereft of any other viable option, it was no surprise Joanne found herself going over the bound document with a pen in hand, seated at her kitchen¡¯s counter while Wolffe pranced around, having finished eating from his bowl by her kicking feet. But she was not ready to start filling out the questionnaire yet. Instead, her pen came up to tap idly against the side of her face, for a moment, her eyes blinked rapidly as she processed the wealth of information within its pages. She sat up, her mind echoing an earlier thought from the previous day: could the clinic bring about her much-needed salvation? Her perusal of the document had told her many things about the clinic and had shown her (in great detail) its many accomplishments, but it could still be an elaborate and well-thought-out ruse ¡ª something still not yet out of the realm of possibilities. After all, scammers could be highly efficient and be working in groups. Her lips parted in mild frustration and with a sigh, she rested her chin in an upturned palm. She could not stop her mind from going in circles, rooted as she was to the metaphorical ground by expected hesitation yet urged onward by the pressure of identity loss, and haunted by the thought that she was potentially damned if she was to believe in the clinic and absolutely damned if she did not. She huffed; it seemed there was only an illusion of available options. Finding the questionnaire within the pages, her hope was the same as always: maybe the clinic could provide the remedy to her problems. And as was usual in this sort of situation, her future depended on it. After a while, excited yelps from her dog drew her attention from the now-completed questionnaire. Glancing briefly at the clock, she realized enough time had passed and Wolffe was positively itching for a walk. Not that she could blame the poor boy, covering a yawn as she stood and stretched her limbs. She was also in need of some fresh air ¡ª even though she thought she should be okay with the one she had earlier. Then again, there was a difference between dashing because something vital was on the line and a stroll with a happy dog. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. Besides, she needed to stop at the post office to drop off the bound document, now sealed and addressed to the clinic. Fastening the collar around Wolffe¡¯s neck, there was a swift swoosh of air as he sped away from her, and she struggled to keep him still enough to pick up the essentials and lock her entrance before they were off and out of the building. It was a sunny afternoon, yet a brisk breeze came from the Southeast, and the people currently out were wrapped to brave it. Just after the noon rush hour and with light traffic lining the streets, she took her first step onto the pathway, a half-stumble as the dog gleefully faced the long walk ahead of them and pulled her along. She regained control before she could fall over her feet by shouting his name, reminding the dog he was being walked and not the other way around. With Wolffe suitably chastised, they continued on their way, offering greetings to any they deemed familiar when appropriate. This continued until they reached the corner post office, and though she was expecting there to be a queue (the British were fond of them), nothing could have prepared her for what was actually there. Through the small window in the big brass door, she saw a crowd. Assuming it was a small jam of foot traffic, she waited a moment for some of the people to exit. No one did, and the reality set in that she had arrived during peak hours. This was the line for those awaiting their turn. Sighing, she ushered an instruction to her dog to remain outside as she entered, though not before giving him a chew toy to play with. After about fifteen minutes, the line began to finally move. Looking ahead, it seemed there was an entire senior center¡¯s worth of people reluctantly waiting with a dozen problems and complaints each. The less patient behind her gave up and walked out, some with annoyed buffs and others with muttered words, and if it was not because of her nature ¡ª she was already here, why not see it through? ¡ª she would not have decided to stick it out. She pulled out her wireless earbuds to listen to some songs, and with her ears covered and feet occasionally tapping to the rhythm of her favored beats, she was barely aware of the passage of time. Soon, she was called up to the available window at the service counter, her parcel was scanned, the postage paid for, and with her luck, it would be on its way to the clinic before the end of the day. Wandering out, she noticed that while the post officers were full of people receiving letters and parcels (or vice versa), every other business seemed languid; a calico cat dozed in the entrance of a restaurant opposite, and a vendor leaned on his chin, body slumped and features drowsy. Quickly purchasing a drink of water from the vendor ¡ª who was visibly annoyed at the disturbance ¡ª she called out to her dog and, leash in hand and a bottle to her mouth, they made their way to the nearest park, either not wanting to return home immediately and the problems that dwelled. CHAPTER EIGHT Joanne hated taking public transport. She hated the occasional cramped seats, the invasion of her personal space, the fact the bus stopped every few minutes to pick up more passengers, and the noise of said passengers. It was stressful, annoying, and far too full of people. But the clinic was not within walking distance and not one to splurge on Uber rides unnecessarily, and bereft of a personal vehicle, taking the bus was the least inconvenient option. She mapped out the most direct route, left early to avoid the crowds, and handled it as best as she could. Her earbuds helped, and she never travelled without her kindle and a network connection. She made do. However, unlike her previous trip, she was not buried in a novel that piqued her interest ¡ª shutting the world, and more importantly, anyone who sat next to her, out ¡ª but instead had her phone out and was staring at a specific contact on the screen. It was the day after her impromptu summoning, and since then, for the past few hours, she had been gathering the nerve to call it ¡ª and each time, she would shake her head and dismiss the idea. Was an apology needed? Mia had not taken much offence at her action, or so Mrs. Johnson said. There was also a part of her that wondered if her agent did not want to hear from her. After all, Mia¡¯s words could have been said just to prevent her from being fired ¡ª so, because it was honestly not enough to draw a suitable conclusion, her agent¡¯s feelings towards her could range from hatred to indifference and any within. Even more insane, what if Mia was just busy? Preoccupied with something, or someone for that matter. No, she did not want to be a disturbance. Halfway into her trip, restless and unable to distract herself or concentrate on the novel, she finally gave in to the urge and her brain signals reached her hand. Regardless of if her agent was still offended or not, her attitude was appalling and unprofessional. It would not take anything from her to apologise and, in fact, not apologising could further strain their already strained relationship. The pad of her forefinger pressed down on the contact, pressing down again shortly after to dial the displayed number. It rang. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Her curiosity was piqued; maybe Mia was having a late breakfast, or in the midst of taking a rare break from checking the many submissions, eyes bloodshot and a cup of cold brew in hand. Another ring. She muttered an apology and shifted her purse to her lap, freeing up the seat beside hers for the elderly man to make use of. By the third ring, she already regretted calling. Maybe she should hang up. If her agent was going to pick up, surely she would have done so by now. What if she was not really alone? Maybe she really was busy. Maybe ¡ª and Joanne sincerely hoped she was wrong ¡ª it was true Mia did not want to hear from her. What should she do? Leave a message or hang¡ª ¡°Mia,¡± came the breathless greeting. Never would she have pegged herself as the sentimental type, and so she dismissed the thud of her heart as an inconveniently-timed heartburn from the pre-made pancakes and oatmeal she had eaten. It certainly was not a sign of relief as the ringing stopped. Nope. ¡°Joanne?¡± ¡°Mia¡­ are you busy at the moment?¡± A momentary pause. ¡°No, why?¡± ¡°I would like to apologise. It was wrong of me to be rude to you.¡± A deep breath preceded her words. ¡°I forgot I was not the only one stressed out by this situation.¡± Silence crackled on the other end of the line. ¡°Mia?¡± She filled it, tucking her lower lip between her teeth and turning her head to stare out the window at the passing vehicles in the opposing lane. ¡°There¡¯s no need for that,¡± was her agent¡¯s response. Jonne could not help but repeatedly shake her head, even though she knew her agent could not see her actions. On the glass, her reflection ¡ª a vague suggestion of an olive face, brown eyes, and neatly-ironed suit ¡ª mirrored her movements. ¡°Maybe,¡± she hedged, ¡°but it was not professional, and I apologise.¡± There was silence again, broken only by the fuzzing of the line. Eventually, Mia sighed. ¡°It''s okay, Joanne, I understand.¡± The aforementioned leaned back in her seat, a smile adorning her features. A part of her had not expected an actual answer; she had expected a deflection or her agent hanging up, so she was pleasantly surprised. ¡°I''m not angry. I only hope we can deal with this problem quickly before you get fired.¡± ¡°About that,¡± she started, her smile twisting into a grimace at the remainder. It took a conscious effort to smooth it out. ¡°There is something I want to talk to you about.¡± ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± Mia had adopted her default tone and, instinctively, it had her straightening out on the seat. ¡°It has to do with a clinic I found online¡­¡± CHAPTER NINE As Joanne walked through the waiting room and past the desk, giving the receptionist a curt nod as a greeting, she knocked, once, then twice, before opening the door to the psychotherapist, Mr. Davies¡¯ ¡ª or, as he suggested she called him, Davies ¡ª office. She was some minutes early for her appointment as she was never one to be tardy, and with no one else around, she was allowed to go in immediately. Upon seeing the man¡¯s seated form, she emerged tentatively from behind the door, closing it offhand and crossing the distance between them. ¡°Joanne, it''s nice to see you again,¡± he said, standing and holding his hand out, eyes twinkling and tone welcoming. They shook hands, and with a slight smile ¡ª her mood bouncing back slightly as she did her best to forget the conversation she had with Mia ¡ª she sat on the only other available seat, her purse on her lap. ¡°Likewise.¡± He sat, mimicking her pose, and she could feel the weight of his eyes on her. ¡°Before I tell you what to expect from your treatment, I''d like to go over a few things with you.¡± Taking her silence for what it was, he continued, ¡°What were your sources of inspiration before the block?¡± ¡°My sources of inspiration?¡± she repeated, cocking her head and furrowing her brows. ¡°I do not know ¡ª my personal experience and researchers?¡± He nodded, but she was hesitant. ¡°Why are you asking?¡± ¡°We need to know what has worked well for you in the past¡±¡ªhe relaxed in his seat, steepling his fingers across his chest¡ª¡°and incorporate it into your treatment.¡± She was still not convinced. ¡°I have tried everything I can find online, Davies, including finding inspiration from the sources I used to. Nothing worked.¡± She shook her head, frustration underlying the bitter admission. ¡°Maybe,¡± he conceded, his hands up in a placating gesture, and she realised she had leaned forward further than was appropriate, her expression visibly tight. ¡°But, and hear me out, we¡¯ve found that previously helpful methods, tweaked properly, can be the solution all along. After all, there''s a reason they worked before.¡± She straightened, but bit her lips and glanced away, deep in thought for a short while before sighing. ¡°I guess there is no harm in talking about it.¡± The man clapped his hands loudly, a large grin splitting his face. ¡°Great!¡± ¡°I have always written based on the events surrounding my life,¡± she began, returning his gaze. ¡°It was the only way I knew how to, and even when I wanted to explore something new for my write-up, my opinions and emotions would colour it.¡± The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. She paused, expectantly, and patiently waited. When there was no interruption and he gestured for her to continue, she obliged. ¡°I got inspiration almost whenever I achieved something: when I got my own apartment; when I travelled to a new place; when I started dating my ex; when we broke up.¡± Her breath hitched. ¡°Even when I fractured my kneecap trying to save my neighbour¡¯s cat ¡ª but that is the standard for most writers, right?¡± ¡°That¡¯s probably true,¡± he said, shrugging his shoulders and there was a flare-up of irritation within her at his casualness. ¡°Go on.¡± Her hands gripped the hem of her skirt. ¡°That is all.¡± He blinked. ¡°Really?¡± ¡°Yes. My personalised style of writing has always been what caught my reader¡¯s attention, and I like to believe it was because they could easily relate to it, but now¡±¡ªher grip tightened considerably and she lowered her gaze¡ª¡°for some¡­ fucking reason, my brain has decided to shut down its creativity and if I can not get a hold of myself ¡ª if I can not get over the block before this month¡¯s end ¡ª I will lose my job. I will lose all I have worked hard to achieve.¡± There was a moment ¡ª a brief horrifying one, really ¡ª as deep emotions stirred, a single drop of encapsulated frustration welled up from the corner of her eye and threatened to fall ¡ª and try as hard as she could to refocus her thoughts elsewhere, the damage had already been done; to her embarrassment, a tear fell down her cheeks. Thankfully, no words were said, so, in the silence that followed, she took a deep shuddering breath and sniffled once, doing her best to make her outward appearance look calm compared to how tangled her mind was. ¡°I am so sorry,¡± she said, her voice just above a whisper. ¡°That was very unprofessional¡ª¡± ¡°It¡¯s okay, Joanne, I understand...¡± Registering his words, she could not help but find amusing the fact that two drastically different people, on opposite sides with opposing opinions of the clinic, had told her the same thing in less than an hour. She sniffled again, her lips forming a quivering smile, before retrieving a handkerchief from her purse and wiping her eyes with it. Folding the handkerchief primly and returning it, she finally looked up. There was a smile on the man¡¯s face as he spoke, not condescending and not pitying either, but a balance between them she unconsciously found herself seeking solace in. ¡°...Joanne, are you with me?¡± A sheepish expression overtaking the smile on her face, she shook her head. ¡°Sorry, I was not listening. Please, repeat yourself.¡± She fought the urge to apologise again and kept quiet as he agreed to her request. ¡°You¡¯ll be sent an email tomorrow, at the latest.¡± Any annoyance he felt at her antics was mercifully absent in his voice. ¡°It¡¯ll contain information about your treatment and instructions we implore you not to discount.¡± He stood and she followed suit, her purse coming to hang on her shoulder by its chain strap. ¡°I assure you we know what we are doing, and should you do as instructed, your writer¡¯s block will be a thing of the past.¡± They shook hands again, though this time was a bit longer than necessary as he leaned in with a large grin and continued, ¡°For legal purposes, I''m obligated to inform you of our no-refund policy,¡± ¡°Are you not meant to tell me before I pay?¡± The man¡¯s grin widened almost impossibly further, an unknown glint in his eyes as he sat back down. ¡°Goodbye, Joanne.¡± That was as much a dismissal as any, so, heart hammering at the ominous statements, she slowly walked out of the office, ignoring the goodbye from the receptionist ¡ª who, like the first time they met, was chewing gum loudly. Mia¡¯s warnings about the risk of scams and broken promises played repeatedly in her head, and even as she reached the nearby bus stop and boarded one home, her agent¡¯s voice was a knife meticulously carving at that rope anchoring her to the chance of a cure, threatening to bring her back into the ether filled with disappointment and doubt. CHAPTER TEN The next morning, as Joanne¡¯s alarm blared for a minute and stopped, her drift into consciousness was slow. Rolling over, she snuggled into the warmth of the covers, smiling softly at how comfortable she was. Though there was still an underlying sense of worry and haste from the previous days¡¯ events, it was somewhat enjoyable to wake up free from her work¡¯s stress; no morning calls from an underpaid (and thus, over-dependent) agent ringing in her ears to force her out of bed; no scheduled meeting she had to attend ¡ª and she intended to make most of it. She sat up on her bed, stretching out her arms and arching her back until it felt like she was about to pop. Satisfied, they fell to her sides and, on bare feet, she padded over to the windows that spanned the wall opposite her bed. She drew open the blinds, allowing the cool, moist air to fully wake her and the fading darkness to hold her attention for a moment ¡ª and her smile widened as the light from the lamp posts mixed with those of the celestial bodies to give her skin an almost eerie touch. Squinting, she turned her gaze to the city beyond the window. A splash of colours bloomed in the distance, and the cacophonous sounds of honks and squeals of tires against asphalt could be heard. Businesses were opening, and those who wished to avoid the usual morning traffic had already left the comforts of their home, mingling with similar others on the concrete jungle that was her city. Above, the clouds lazily swirled their way across the sky, unable to hide the hints of sunlight creeping over the horizon. It was going to be a lovely day, she just knew. Shrugging out of the thin nightgown she had worn to bed, she paused in front of her wardrobe, hand hovering over its contents in indecision. It was a nice day out and she was in the mood for a jog. She made a selection, pulling it over her toned frame, then stood in front of the mirror. The athletic wear were in her favourite colours as they were wont to be, with the brand contrasting sharply and proudly displayed. She could not help but pose a little, giggling as she indulged in her idle model fantasies. She looked good. On her way out, she scooped up her phone, card, and some cash, placing them all in their appropriate pockets in her bum bag, which went around her waist. Wolffe was awake, the Keeshond scampering around in aimless circles before, upon sighting her, sliding across the tiles to bump right into her leg. Laughing softly, she bent and picked him up, cradling him in her arms as she made for the door. "One day you''ll be too big for cuddles, but, hopefully, not yet,¡± she whispered, rubbing his belly, and was rewarded with a wet tongue on her neck. ¡°I want you to remain my baby for a while.¡± At the entrance, she settled him down to slip on a pair of black running shoes and lock the door, and after pocketing both her key and keycard, walked out of the building with her dog on her heels. It was not long before she was jogging down a well-worn footpath in the nearby park, yellow-leaved trees acting as guardians on either side and the lamp posts providing illumination to light her way. Her hair, put up in its usual ponytail, bobbed up and down in mimicry of her movements, errant strands swaying in the wind, and her calves burnt something fierce as her footsteps pounded the ground. Sweat dripped down the back of her neck, staining the pink sports bra and black yoga pants she wore. Despite all that, she wore a smile as she continued on the path, the exertion, pleasing, and the music booming in her head from her earbuds, her very own war song urging her onwards. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. She had passed other joggers, strollers, and dog walkers alike ¡ª but was thankful there were not too many as she had left Wolffe to his own devices to concentrate on her exercises ¡ª and as time elapsed, found herself indulging in a favoured hobby: idling observing each individual. One particularly determined young man strode purposefully from the other direction, coloured weight in hands, while a similarly-aged woman jogged a few feet adjacent from her. Joanne glanced to her side, her gaze settling on the woman¡¯s elated expression, and her cheeks flushed hot with desire. Even as she pumped her legs rhythmically, she could not help but drink in the woman¡¯s delicate yet fierce features ¡ª from her face, pale and beading with sweat, to her lips, settled beneath a dainty nose and open to let loose ragged breaths ¡ª and never had ¡®attractive¡¯ seemed an insufficient descriptor than it did then ¡ª and, as if the universe sought to punish her thoughts, a squirrel chose that moment to run across the path. Its sudden appearance startled her, and such was her shock that she stepped back and released a high-pitch shriek. Unfortunately, her hurried actions resulted in a stumble, and consequently, she fell. ¡°Ow!¡± she intoned loudly, a palm flexed on the ground to support her body while the other reached behind to massage her sore bum. ¡°Shit!¡± The voice was young, distinctively feminine, and seemed to come from just beyond her line of sight. ¡°Are¡±¡ªa hand came into view, half-bitten nails with chipped varnish on full display¡ª¡°you alright?¡± Concern was apparent in the words, and curiosity piqued, she looked up. In front of her, and outlined in dark relief against the early morning sun, stood the woman she was ogling, blonde hair lying like a second skin over rosy cheeks and gaze on her. At once, Joanne flushed hot once more, and from her position on the ground, took in the salty droplets flowing down the woman¡¯s face as she bent slightly to regain her breath, the dark and growing map of perspiration on the tank top, and the supple curves of her body emphasised by the tight yoga pants and bra top she wore. ¡°Hello?¡± The voice brought Joanne back to the present, and she lowered her gaze in shame. Her blatant ogling was noticed, it seemed, yet instead of cursing her out, a hand was still outstretched to help her up, and the woman¡¯s lips were curled teasingly. However, it would do her good to remember that just because the woman liked being ogled ¡ª or so she assumed ¡ª it did not mean her actions were in the right. Professionalism does not begin and end in official settings. ¡°Oh-oh-yeah, thanks,¡± she stuttered, taking the offered hand and pulling herself up. Once on her feet, she released her hold and used them to wipe out the dust from her impromptu landing. ¡°Sorry for that.¡± ¡°For¡­ falling?¡± the woman said, her words drawled out and brows furrowed. Joanne shook her head. ¡°My actions were inappropriate.¡± The apology slipped past her lips before she could retract them, and as an awkward silence filled the air between them, she began fidgeting in place, internally chastising her sense of respect ¡ª but as the deed was already done, she forcefully squared her shoulders and waited for a response, whatever that may be. She was not expecting the laughter that erupted from the woman¡¯s lips, and so she sputtered as a result, losing her composure and twisting her face in an interesting visual mix of disbelief, shame, and annoyance. Eventually, the laughter petered out. ¡°Gosh, you seem a bit uptight¡±¡ªa smile was directed her way to take the sting out of the words¡ª¡°but I¡¯ll overlook it because you¡¯re cute.¡± Unable to respond as she was gaping, still fighting the red in her cheeks, the woman continued, eyes considering. ¡°I''m Emile, by the way.¡± A hand removed the phone from its armband holder and held it out. ¡°Your phone number?¡± Joanne should have said no, but she did not. Maybe it was the loneliness that hid behind her workaholic nature, or the need to finally move on from Nathan ¡ª maybe even the need for stress relief. Either way, after they exchanged contact details, she found her dog and left the park feeling dazed. CHAPTER ELEVEN Joanne emerged from the bathroom refreshed but wet, and as she dried herself off, she checked her phone for any missed notifications. Unsurprisingly, there were many, but three caught her interest, though all for varying reasons. One, in particular, was more important to her as it had come from Nathan and on the back of a missed call, and ¡ª walking towards one of her towering hardwood closets, one towel wrapped around her hair ¡ª quickly typed a response: Is something wrong? Less than a minute later, as she heaved out a black sweatshirt and a pair of grey sweats, her phone vibrated with a familiar pop-up of an incoming call. Nathan. Accepting it, she greeted him once the ringing stopped as she used the side of her head and shoulder to hold the phone in place, dressing in clothes baggy enough to fit her half over. Little sock slippers went on afterward. ¡°Ann, I hope I''m not interrupting anything?¡± ¡°No, not really¡ªbut I am about to eat though.¡± She sprayed her deodorant under her arms. ¡°Does this have to do with your message?¡± ¡°Yeah, I need to ask you something, and it seems easier to call.¡± ¡°Sounds ominous,¡± she said with a smile, easing her shoulder of its burden and returning the towels to the bathroom, phone now in hand. He laughed. ¡°Nothing bad, I hope.¡± His voice had tapered off at the end, becoming a whisper, and she remembered his irrational fears. ¡°Cece and I finally have a date for the wedding. We have a venue and it''s all systems go.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± The bed bounced from her impact on it, and she moved to lean against the foam headboard. ¡°That is¡­excellent news. Where is my invite?¡± ¡°Ah¡­ well, that''s why I''m calling. Obviously, you are getting an invite, so my question is, as we will be giving you an invitation with a plus one, we need to know if you will be coming along with someone. There''s a seat arrangement, and we need confirmation before tonight to ensure everything¡¯s in order for next week.¡± ¡°I¡­ don''t know,¡± she admitted, and unbidden, a slight frown appeared on her face. Seeking an immediate distraction from the thoughts bubbling to the forefront of her mind by the call ¡ª maybe she should have gone for either of the two other notifications instead of what she hoped was a pleasant chat ¡ª and looked to the takeaway bag on her bedside table. ¡°Nathan, I am really hungry. I will send a message later with my decision.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± A beat of silence passed and she cringed; her goodbye was abrupt and quite rude ¡ª and she had to wonder if her situation was finally getting to her because these past few days, she was disrespectful in one way or the other. ¡°Okay, then. Take care of yourself, Ann.¡± She should not take out her frustration on him. It was not his fault a part of her still held onto the past while he had fully moved on. ¡°Talk later.¡± The call ended, and with a sigh, she turned her attention to her breakfast. She reached out to the bag and opened it to pick up a McMuffin. Unwrapping it, the smell of bacon, egg, and room-temperature sausage patties filled her nose as she brought it to her mouth and bit into it. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. Her taste buds lit up with a combination of tastes and textures: sweet, sour, salty, with a bit of crunch. The patty was juicy, the bun soft yet sturdy, and the accompanying condiments and herbs tied everything up nicely. Then, after a few bites, she decided to open the remaining notifications. Honestly speaking, after the call, she was not in the mood for any more surprises this morning, but she knew no good would come from ignoring them, so with another sigh (though it was of trepidation rather than frustration at her actions), she disregarded the one guaranteed to annoy her in favour of the opposite. The subject line read: ¡®Follow the Instructions¡¯ ¡ª and as she clicked to open the email in full, she could not help the snort in derision. What was with people and being ominous lately? To her growing chagrin, there was no text; a file attachment with some instructions was all that was contained within. She hesitated for a moment, convinced it was either hacked mail (unlikely given her account¡¯s security measures and relative anonymity) or a joke they were playing (considerably more unlikely given the supposed serious nature of the clinic, but then again¡­?). Ensuring her webcams and speakers were covered, just in case, she decided to bite the bullet and open the attachment. What she saw was as puzzling as it was vexing, and she had to quickly stifle the urge to throw her phone against the wall ¡ª because what the actual fuck was wrong with people? Was her situation a joke to them? Or had it been a scam all along and she was too hopeful to see it? Was Mia right? Her appetite was shot and her mood had gone down the drain, but her stomach resisted her mental compulsion to stop grumbling, so grudgingly finishing her food, she decided to go three for three on the shit cake she was having. Clicking on the last important notification, an email from the new lead writer, Mr. Wright, more or less confirmed her as a glutton for punishment, but rather than rise in fury once more, she deflated where she sat. The gist of it was that she had until the end of the month, so eighteen days in total, to write a short story centred around the theme of forgiveness and based in a mediaeval setting. All in all, it was a decidedly simple task, yet for the life of her, she did not know where and how to start ¡ª and with the useless piece of fucking shit that was her so-called treatment, she had no idea if she ever would. ¡°No,¡± she whispered, shaking her head. Her hands clenched into a fist and she set her jaw. She could¡ªhad to do this or she would like her job, and she definitely did not want that. From the looks of it, the clinic was a scam, but maybe she did not need their help ¡ª or anyone else for that matter. Maybe she could just keep at it, brute-forcing through her writer¡¯s block to put the words in her head on paper (or its electronic equivalent), regardless of the hopelessness of it all. It had not worked before, but now, with the threat of termination hanging over her head like the Sword of Damocles and her deadline sneaking up on her ever-so-slowly, she would have enough of a push to accomplish what she thought was impossible. Yes, she nodded to herself. She could do this ¡ª and she would because she was determined to complete the given task, and was stubborn, unable to accept nothing but success. Mind made up, she crawled out of her bed and as she made her way to the desk by the wall, threw the squeezed takeaway bag into the trash can beside it. She switched on her laptop and once it finished booting up, nimble fingers deftly moved across the keyboard to unlock it. As her favoured writing app was pulled up, she left the room to grab a can of pringles from her kitchen ¡ª sparing her sleeping dog a passing glance to ensure he was alright, and a slight smile at the cuteness of the scene ¡ª before returning. Settling down on the chair, she took a deep breath; there was a single-minded focus in her mind as she tried to start that magical transmutation of thoughts and impressions into a series of words and sentences, hoping whatever she wrote conveyed enough depth and meaning. Yet, it was not to be. Anything other than the strictest, most direct sentences was lost to her, and she was left with an awful, clunky, and unskilled prose. It was certainly nothing to be proud of, and though a part of her felt happy to finally put words on a page since (what felt like) a lifetime ago, upon seeing the results of her determination, the greater part of her ached to write with the same eloquence she had taken for granted. That desire, displayed in the trembling of her hands, made her fight her damndest to ignore the reality of her situation ¡ª but it was a losing battle, she felt, brows furrowed and gaze fixed on the cursor blinking almost mockingly on her laptop. She wondered if it was ironic that rather than feel the pressure of those words trapped in her head, fervently yearning for an escape, this exercise left her feeling emptier than ever. A sigh broke past her lips and she deleted the nonsense she wrote, slumping into her seat afterward. She found her eyes straying past the singles (still sealed) to her phone and her mind to Davies¡¯ instructions as she picked it up, and bereft of any other option, she clicked open the email once more ¡ª and as was the case since the beginning, nothing but hope fueled her actions.