Chapter 16
?
I think…I need to reevaluate some things. Or. Everything.
Crisis
“It’s mundane, lacking all vivid and concise enough language to get the point across. The common description words do nothing for imagery. I’m positive the author was writing, half asleep, after having drunk a tall glass of something with both broccoli and peanut butter in it.” The idea of a smile flirts with Viktor’s lips as his gaze catches on mine. “He probably almost died. And it shows extensively in his work.”
Pregnant silence—ripe with surprise, shock, and horror—hangs in the air around the table.
After listening to Viktor critique stories last night—sparing no kindness even for one of his own—I’ve been struggling to catch my breath. My entire opinion of the man has evolved into a foreign creature, ready to devour me. But this? This is the last straw.
It’s workshop. The first of two that this writing retreat has scheduled. The day I was looking forward to.
All the attendees have broken up into smaller groups to pass their writing around. Little Red Riding Hood is in our group, along with a few other men and women, who just spent several minutes oohing and ahhing Viktor’s sample. Little Red went so far as to crack open the colored pens she brought and scrawl eager comments dappled with hearts all over the MLA formatted pages.
Everyone at our table insisted that they start with a master so they’d have an even more refined barometer for everyone else’s work. But after no one supplied any comments of substance for a draft even I can pick out flaws in, Viktor took matters into his own hands and critiqued the sample himself.
Publicly, he ripped up his own work, and I hear his voice echo in the back of my mind.
It’s tolerable enough, but it doesn’t really matter to me, no.
I can’t explain the physical recoil that is taking place in my entire soul.
Little Red clears her throat. “Mr. Bachelor, if I may ask…why did you have a broccoli and…peanut butter…concoction before writing this scene?”
His smile takes on an even more humored edge as his attention slips off me to find her on the other side of the table. “I’m told both those things are good for me. And I’m not one to argue when someone makes me something.”
“I think someone was trying to poison you,” Little Red whispers; the rest of the table concurs.
I, obviously, tense.
Viktor only shrugs. “Perhaps. Perhaps they know I’d drink poison if they handed it to me.”
Do not test that theory repeats in my skull while Little Red braces herself, pushes up her glasses, and says, “Okay! Me next. I-if that’s okay with everyone?”
Enthusiastic nods all around make me think no one wants to follow Viktor, knowing that his own work isn’t even good enough for himself. Despite their reasoning on having him go first, ultimately, writers are fragile, emotional creatures. And when we solicit a critique, somewhere deep down we’re hoping it comes back as a five star review.
Or, at least, as something we can still work on without a total upheaval.
Little Red’s sample lands in front of me, boasting Odessa as her name. Odessa. How pretty. I wonder if it’s her real name or the one she picked for herself. Either way, it doesn’t matter.
I bury my thoughts in the distraction.
Chatter from the other tables rises and falls as we review the five hundred words stretched double-space across the two pages. Since I’m only a PA here for the kicks and not a professional author or aspiring writer , I sit, and read, and judge without painting any such judgments across the canvas.
The same cannot be said for Viktor, whose pen tracks across the lines, leaving scarce a word unmarked. His pages bleed by the time everyone’s ready, and he also gets the first verbal comment in edgewise.
It is: “Grammar is important, Odessa.”
My stomach turns over.
Odessa’s face heats, matching the wild strands of her curly hair, and her eyes skate across the other people judging her, who appear quite shocked by the coarse statement—yet not entirely willing to disagree.
This sample could be from a book called Night of the Dangling Participles and sequelled by Day of the Misplaced Clauses .
“I-is it really that bad?” she asks.
“Yes,” Viktor states.
“Well, it’s not edited yet.” She toys with her fingers atop the table. “I’ll figure out how to afford an editor for the grammar. But, how’s the rest? The story? I wanted to see if the cliffhanger was effective.”
“Grammar is the foundation of writing. If you don’t know the rules to this extent, it’s very difficult to produce a product that an editor can work with. Also, no good editor will waste their time unless you’re willing to pay thousands and thousands of dollars to have them decode what you’re trying to say. You told me a few days ago that you were considering going independent. That means your editing cost is out of pocket. The more work a story needs, the more expensive it will be. You would do well to learn how to structure your sentences correctly and effectively before you continue writing.”
Odessa shrinks. “That…makes sense.”
“A cliffhanger is only effective if your reader cares about your characters. Without building that relationship first, you’re just using dramatic phrasing, which can read like overexaggerated click bait.”
Viktor.
Viktor, sweetie.
She’s already dead.
Please. Shut up.
Odessa presses her lips together as she grips her hands, dragging them off the table and into her lap. “So. I need to start all over?”
Start over. Try again. And again. And again.
My tongue swells with bitterness, and it’s so very suddenly difficult to breathe.
Viktor does not pull his punch. “I would. There are free resources online that will walk you through the basics of punctuation and sentence structure, how to avoid passive voice, how to effectively utilize breaking the rules to your favor. Start over, and start there.”
If I were Odessa, I’d be plotting infiltration and decimation already .
Is her sample horrible? Yes. Oh my word, yes. It’s a train wreck. I can barely tell what’s going on. And I didn’t realize the end was a cliffhanger until she said so. I just thought it ended abruptly, like in the middle of a scene due to word count constrictions provided when we were all debriefed this morning on how workshop would go after lunch.
It left me confused, not interested, not invested.
But, still.
Still .
“I liked the dog.”
Odessa’s eyes slice to me.
“I like when characters have a pet. Especially when they’re very stupid with their pet.” I smile. “I have a fish, and I’m very stupid with my fish, so seeing a character be stupid with their baby makes me go, yeah, that’s how it’s done . You also have a good vocabulary. I’d consider going through some grammar practice to clarify your lines and reassess pacing. Make sure you have transitions when your characters move. Your main character teleports from playing with her dog to being at her front door without an action clue. There’s potential. It just needs better flow and clarity.”
“I also liked the dog,” one of our other circle members says. “What kind of dog did you picture when you wrote him? Maybe a description detail could bring more grounding to the scene? I have a toy poodle waiting for me back home and…”
Viktor’s eyes on me send a chill racing down my spine while the conversation builds and blurs. I don’t look at him as I take in the marks on the page in his hand. Bleeding, bleeding marks.
The only positive thing I can see remains cold.
Two checks above the word boisterous . He liked that single word in an entire sample.
It’s all so painfully clear right in this moment.
Ten years ago, I wasn’t singled out.
Viktor doesn’t care about writing. He’s not trying to spare any feelings, because there aren’t any feelings involved in this. He knows that the most outrageous, poorly written book can still sell. It’s not that he’s trying to crush dreams. It’s just that nothing, not even his own work, is ever good enough.
He doesn’t care. So his advice leads toward sale. His critiques suggest that there’s marketability, or there isn’t.
The best compliment he has for even his own work is that it’s done .
Functional. Sellable. Imperfect.
But not his problem anymore.
?
After workshop, Viktor and I return to our room, where I find my way to the bed, shed my shoes, and drop face-first into my pillow. I’d scream if it wouldn’t frighten the horse companions sandwiching us in this bedroom stall. Since I can’t, I just breathe through the polyester, feeling my lungs shrink and cry in the absence of fresh air.
It is far less than I deserve.
Not even a swift kick in the head would be sufficient retribution, yet I still wonder if either of our closest hall-mates would oblige.
“Crisis?” Viktor’s voice reaches me in the abyss. “Are you okay?”
“My life is a lie,” I muffle. My life is a lie, and I am insane, and I genuinely do not know how to fix the broken things inside me when they are this severely impaired.
I’ve spent the past decade hating someone who already hates himself.
I burnt my nice, mild-mannered, somewhat mentally-stable dreams in favor of being a spiteful lunatic.
I took one, brief, private critique and imploded—while Odessa looked Viktor in the eye before we left the main hall and said she was going to teach herself grammar, rewrite the scene, and petition his opinion again at the second workshop.
Viktor literally said, That’s in five days .
And she replied, I know.
You know, like a normal person.
A normal person who is about to have commas spilling out of her ears, but a normal person all the same.
In stark contrast, I made a several hundred step plan, taking full advantage of the infinite qualities afforded me via Canva Whiteboard. My Canva Whiteboard scheme against Viktor is so hefty the sucker crashes my phone app. Instead of taking a deep breath, responding back to ask for clarification or tips on how to nurture a style , I made a Canva Whiteboard that crashes my phone.
Why am I like this?
How does someone even become like this ?
And what am I supposed to do now?
Repent? Confess? Drown myself in a lake?
My flesh crawls when Viktor’s hand settles on my shoulder and his weight plants itself on the bed beside me.
Pushing myself up on my arms, hair falling in my face, I look at him, search him, guarded.
He hesitates, then he tucks the curtain of my hair back, murmuring lowly, “Do you want to talk about it? I’ll listen.”
My eyes narrow, and a different sort of hatred for this man bubbles up in the pit of my chest. It, unlike the last kind, burns. I know, fully, I can’t justify this feeling no matter how hard I try. There is nothing right in it. This hate stems solely from the fact I’ve been wrong , and terrible, and unkind—to someone gentle, and genuine, and good .
It’s the hatred that comes from looking in a mirror and seeing a disgusting monster beside the angelic beauty of a person you can never hope to emulate.
It’s new. And I can’t control it. So Viktor sees it.
Viktor sees it, and he flinches .
Hopeless stillness crosses his face as he pulls his hand away from me and closes his fingers, deeply unsettled.
Two years.
Two years and the worst this man has been is grumpy . Grumpy, yet compliant.
He’s particular and steady. Handling more responsibility than a human ever should. He cares for his family, his readers, everyone around him with the same stable hand.
I wish he’d just…
Hit me .
Emotion burns, welling in my eyes, and this time I can’t fight it. My lip trembles as I bite it, and I can’t control my fragile breaths as they shake into my chest. Lifting my hand, I scrub my cheek as tears pour.
Gentle, sweet, strong, tolerant Viktor retrieves a tissue box from his nightstand and returns to my side.
I could cuss him out, but he’s still my boss , and I need to grasp hold of the fraying strands of my logic so I don’t lose everything . I need my job, so I can keep my home. Everything I have relies on this man who owns everything I’ve built.
No matter the chaos in my brain, I can’t throw being able to live away because of one stupid breakdown. I need to get a grip . I need to get a grip, knowing that Viktor won’t hold this against me or expect me to explain myself. He’s too benevolent for that.
He’ll just continue being careful and kind. So, so kind . No matter what.
I wonder if kindness is a privilege of power that so few people in power choose. Knowing that no one can possibly do anything to touch him when he holds all the cards to the lives around him in his hand has made him kind .
I was not aware that some power bred mercy instead of retribution.
In the next three minutes, I need to come up with a new plan for how I’ll exist. Crimson will take me on as her assistant if I ask, so that’s a job figured out. Viktor won’t kick me out of my home before I’m ready to move. I passed all the tests to live in Sunset, and I’ll leave my position with him correctly. I just need to turn in my two weeks, so I’ll draft that later today, after confirming with Crimson that it’s okay to work for her, for at least a little while, just until I can find a job elsewhere.
When I remember how perfect Sunset is and how much I do love calling this town home, I begin sobbing harder.
Everything is going to change. Everything needs to change. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I hate this. I hate this.
“Please,” I croak. “Go away.”
I expect kind, good, gentle Viktor to stand, say something innocuous like feel better soon , and go. But he doesn’t move a muscle.
“No.” He pulls a tissue from the box I’ve neglected, takes my chin firmly in his hand, and wipes my tears. “I’m not going anywhere. Talk to me.”
“I don’t want to.”
“That’s too bad.” He pulls another tissue out of the box and offers it. “Blow your nose.”
Because I’m broken, and also five, I say, “No.”
His brows rise .
“I’m disgusting. I don’t want you to see me like this. I don’t want anyone to see me like this. Go away. ” I swat at his immovable hand. “ And stop touching me. ”
“You,” he starts, refusing to let go, “are beautiful. Always.”
“You,” I start, gripping his wrist and digging my nails into him, “are a liar.”
“I’ve been called brutally honest more times than I can count. Being called a liar is new. Please, talk to me, Crisis. You were on the verge of tears the other day, too, and I know it wasn’t about your fish. Let me support you.”
“Support me?” I whisper. “What are you talking about? You’re my boss . That’s it. We’re not friends. You don’t have any right to support me through anything. I apologize, sir, for my current unprofessional state, but in my defense, I’ve been working five twenty-four hour shifts in a row. My routines are turned over, and I just want to go home where some things make sense and the rest doesn’t have to matter.”
His gaze drops to my nails, embedded in him, threatening to draw blood, but he doesn’t move. “I consider us to be friends.”
“I consider that a violation of work boundaries.”
“Then stop working for me.”
My stomach revolts.
Was I already planning to draft a two weeks’ notice tonight? Yes. Have I yet had the chance to create a new plan for the next decade in Canva Whiteboard? No.
My skin blanches. “Are you firing me?” Over one breakdown? After everything I’ve put him through? This is the final straw?
“I value our friendship more than I value you as an employee. So, if you can’t be both, I’d rather be friends.”
Is he insane ? I’ve never done a friendly thing to this guy. Every time I’ve broken from professional expectations, it has been to calculate torture. Meanwhile, in the actual professional field of things, I’ve been a huge asset, growing his already formidable reach by leaps and bounds, organizing his countless assets into streamlined workflows that save time and money where management is concerned.
I’m a fabulous employee.
I absolutely abysmally suck as a friend.
I’m not cool and collected and loving and kind and funny like Crimson. I’m a walking disaster waiting to happen. I bring nothing but problems and drama and insanity to a relationship.
So, I say the only thing I’m thinking: “Are you out of your mind?”
“That does not sound like something an employee would say to their boss, so I see you’ve chosen friendship.”
I close my eyes briefly, collect myself some. “Sorry. Are you out of your mind, sir ? I’m taking a professional interest in the state of your mental health.”
“I’m taking an unprofessional interest in the state of yours.”
“That makes me uncomfortable.”
That makes him release me. “How do I get through to you, Crisis?”
“What are you talking about?”
“How,” he begins, slow, “do I,” slower still, “get through,” the slowest, “ to you ?”
I pluck a fresh tissue and blow my nose because the sheer tomfoolery going on here is overlapping my internal moral dilemma. “What in the world are you trying to get through to me?”
Exasperated, he says, “That I care about you. That I want you to be well. That I want to help you, if I can.” He cusses, dropping the tissue he had been offering me in his lap before he plunges his fingers into his hair. “Come on, Crisis. Do you think I’m an idiot? I’m not drinking green garbage and sleeping on dog bed pillows because I’ve genuinely been convinced they’re a great idea. It’s because it makes you so happy. I want you to be happy.”
Those words shock my system, turning my blood to ice. Gaping at him, I search his eyes. Baffle consumes me. I’ve not fooled him? He’s known that I’ve been a monster? He’s, consciously, allowed it?
Screw what’s wrong with me.
What’s wrong with him?
Who in their right mind suffers through constant irritation and abuse knowingly just because it makes a monster happy ? How…bad were his parents? How much of this response to me has been trained into him?
How much worse am I for it?
“This…” I say, mouth dry, “does not compute.”
“Do I have to spell it out for you, Crisis?”
“Yes. Please.” I wipe a final few tears off my cheeks. “Use small words, and then also speak very slowly.”
His brows knit, and he glares at me.
But, then, without any manner of warning, he grips my chin, pulls me in, and kisses me.