Saturday Night Live

SNL | Chapter 2

I released a scream of bloody murder. My life was over for good. How on Earth didn't I get the fucking part? How?! I screamed again and again and shoved on my manager.

“You fucking idiot,” I screamed at him and pushed my hands against his chest with all of my anger. Fletcher didn't budge from my strength but he grunted from the impact. I was already mad so when he didn't push to shove, it made me more upset. I wanted to hurt him, I wanted him to feel how I was feeling. Hurt! Fucker! “It's your fault I didn't get the part!” I yelled and shoved him again and this time, he stumbled back against the town car's rear.

“Ow, Puppy, cool it,” he groaned but stayed glued to the car, his budging eyes following the movement of my pacing. “This is not the end of the world, you know? There's plently of other auditions out there.”

“Why do you say that everytime I fail to get a part?! I hate you, Fletch! You're fired. F.I.R.E.D. Fucking fired!” I ducked into the car and slammed the door closed, not even caring that Fletcher was trying to get into the car after me. When he did, I scooted far away from him as possible because I didn't want to be nowhere near him. He made me sick. Did he care about how I felt? How was I supposed to get a part when my manager didn't care about my well-being? I mean that's what a manager was for right? To make sure you got what your career was after. I was an actress and at this point—I peeked over at James, he was ogling at his phone as if nothing was wrong (I should kill him)—a failing one because of this asshole. I was serious about him fired. I was so done with him.

“By the way,” Fletcher said after moments of distance silence and the vibration of the car driving the street. I didn't look over at him, I just couldn't. I wanted to cry but not in front of him. I felt like he didn't deserve to see me in any condition anymore. I wanted him out of my life. “If you were trying to spell 'fired' you spelled it wrong.” I blinked my burning eyes and winded my head to look at him blankly.

“What,” I quipped, bewildered. Only cause I was wondering why he was bring up this conversation from whiles ago. It was so random and it was starting to piss me off. I realized when he said something so random out of the ordinary, it pissed me off.

“Fired. You spelled it wrong. You said f.i.r.e.d. when you really said fucking fired so I don't know if it's the emotions. I know. It's an emotional time for us all...” The words trail off awkwardly from his mouth when he finally took the look I was giving him in. “...eeee...” His shoulders sagged and he ran his fingers through his fluffy brown hair. “Look, Puppy...I'm really, really, really sorry. My mistake.”

I almost let the words fly through my left ear and out the other but I just couldn't 'cause when Fletcher said he was sorry, he was sorry. He never used that word without meaning it. He didn't tell you he's sorry if he wasn't one bit. A tear run down my face—damn it—I wiped it away and pulled at the cuff to my sleeve. I nodded a little.

“Fine,” I said, a llittle brittle. I finally clocked eyes on him. “But you're still fired.”

The towncar stopped infront of the destination and Fletcher and I got out. He paid the driver for the night and stood next to me as I got the front door open. He could tell I was still really mad at him so he hasn't really said a word since the last I spoke but he didn't give me any space whatsoever and I knew he knew that I wanted some because of my feelings toward him right now but he didn't care. That was Fletcher. If he wasn't feeling how you were, he didn't care how you were feeling. Just as long he didn't feel what you were feeling, if that made sense at all. I'm not saying he's a careless person but...I don't know. Something.

I got the door open and Fletcher just brushed right on in like a man on skates and went straight for the kitchen. Hungry bastard. I closed the door, threw the keys into the bowl next to the door and glared beams at my manager ramming through the fridge, looking for leftovers. I headed upstairs, ignoring his wanting to know what I wanted to eat. I wasn't hungry. I just lost the big break of my life. How the hell was I supposed to eat on a stomach like that? I probably couldn't keep anything down if I tried. Thinking of eating something made me sick right now. I felt like crap.