Chapter 1
?
Living in spite is totally normal, probably.
Crisis
Here I lie.
A being made up of equal parts atoms and equal parts bad decisions. Dread weighs heavily upon my soul, sinking through my bloodstream like arsenic. Would that I only had mystical powers, I’d swiftly remove so many from this plane of existence, starting with Viktor Bachelor .
My boss .
My nemesis.
The bane of my existence.
Hefting a sigh, I close my eyes, draw my hands up to my face, and open my mouth to free the most silent of screams.
The air hissing through my throat as it leaves me is therapeutic, somehow, and once my lungs burn, I rock myself upright, drop my arms into the sheets on either side of my thighs, and refill the ol’ chest cavity with one hefty inhale.
Here I sit.
Granted another day.
What a terrible, terrible decision on the part of the powers that be .
“Morning, Potato,” I murmur to my darling pea puffer as I kick my legs out of bed, sink my feet into a pair of soft slippers, and stretch my arms above my head. My sore neck pinches, and I weep internally as my heart cries for the tomb.
To renew my will to live, I shift my attention toward my fish.
Potato. The only joy I possess amid this heinous wasteland known as life. Hiding in his tank garden, which hosts roughly fifteen different plants in the vertical ten-gallon space, Potato’s giant eyes follow me as his tiny beak mouth opens and closes. The little fishy does more floating than swimming as he drifts aimlessly about his home, and I love him quite ardently for it.
Round, spotted, perfect. Pufferfish are ideal creatures, and, among them, Potato is the best. The roundest. The spottedest. The perfectest.
Lip pouted, I shuffle myself toward the bathroom so I might prepare for the trials ahead by commencing my first morning ritual—scrubbing mint onto my teeth. Thus is the way of the human.
And, despite popular belief, I am human.
Upon reaching the bathroom, I obtain my toothbrush and toothpaste while I avoid looking in the mirror just in case I begin narrating my features. ’Tis, you must know, the mark of a horrible, bad, no good writer to peer in a looking glass and narrate one’s features in first person. Since I identify as one such writer, every morning I find myself plagued with the urge.
I must resist it. For the sake of my sanity.
After all, I am already beginning every last one of my days by waking up . Which is another staple crime in storytelling. The mundane drear of a morning routine has no place in engaging fiction .
Start in the action , writing sites everywhere advise.
And, no, wrestling my hips into a pair of jeans is not the kind of action they’re talking about.
All the same, I perform the commendable feat every morning with utter disregard for my editor.
Probably because I don’t have one.
Sucking in my ovaries, I wiggle myself into my darned pants, battling the condemning fabric up over my thighs. Fighting to close the zipper and button, I decide this is surely enough action for one day, toss a loose off-the-shoulder blouse on, and brush my hair. When I can resist the urge no longer, I steal a glimpse in my bedroom standing mirror to find my layered dark brown waves hanging limp with side-character energy.
It’s actually offensive how much subpar I am putting out into the world.
With a full name like Crisis Day , I belong front and center in a fantasy novel, starting my mornings off with sword fights.
Instead, here I am, in yet another morning wake-up routine, staring feebly at my reflection, lip curled, eyes as plain brown as my stupid non-gravity-defying hair. The hours I’ve spent scouring my useless irises for flecks of gold or something worthy of mention is truly pitiful, yet they remain brown.
And dull.
And there.
In the mirror.
True big, round orbs lacking any good repute if ever I saw them.
Were I a character in a novel, the author could go chapters without describing me and lose naught from the wise decision.
“You,” I begin, boring eyes narrowed on my boring face, “are inconsequential and devoid of talent, unworthy even to answer the Viktor Bachelor’s emails.” Heh. I smile. “Good thing he doesn’t know that.”
Tossing my pathetic hair, I grab my purse and my phone to dial up my moronic boss. As famous author Viktor Bachelor’s personal assistant, it is my literal job description to make his life easier .
It is, however, my single aspiration to make that easy life of his torture .
A grunt answers the phone, the rough rumble of it vibrating in my ear.
“Good morning , sleepyhead!” I cheer, making it all the way down my driveway to my car before I realize I never swapped my slippers out for shoes.
Chipper as a wilted plant, Viktor grumbles, “What…time is it?”
Time for me to turn around and put my shoes on. Duh . “A perfectly reasonable hour, Mr. Bachelor.”
“Is the sun up yet, Crisis?”
As I unlock my front door, I look toward the dreary navy expanse spread wide above my quaint neighborhood. No, the sun that generally graces the sky is not up. “I am, thank you. Bright-eyed and bushy tailed even!”
He groans. “ Why? ”
“You’re writing five thousand words today, Mr. Bachelor. Plus, you have an interview at two. I emailed your brothers, so they know to leave you alone during the interview block.” I made each of the four of them a Canva pamphlet, specifically designed with their characters in mind. Sent one to Lukas, too, even though he’s on tour in Europe right now. If anyone is capable of being so loud it disturbs Viktor’s interview while he’s an entire ocean away, it’s Lukas. Getting my actual shoes on, I let the corner of my mouth hook upward. “Don’t worry about breakfast. I’ll be making it once I get there. Per usual.”
“Please. No.” Viktor’s words stretch with a yawn. “One day of…mercy. That’s all I…ask.”
“You’re not getting any younger, sir. Do you want your hair to fall out due to a poor diet?”
Half asleep again, he barely mumbles, “I…good…etics.”
“Having good genetics is only half the battle. Alcoholics with good genetics still get beer bellies; pot addicts still lose their teeth. I’ll not hear of this genetics nonsense anymore. It’s my job to take care of you. You pay me very well to take good care of you. So, don’t you worry about a thing. Crisis will be there soon.” And, then, I hang up.
Because it is so much more fun when he falls back asleep before the crisis rolls in…