[NOW FEATURED IN GENERAL FICTION!!!]
Everybody has secrets, something to hide. Some say your secrets are your blood; when you shed too much of it, you die.
For Zara DeRealis, nothing is as heavy a burden as her tempestuous past. Orphaned as a young...
As Simon limped along the short stretch of the hallway, Zara's laptop held tightly under his arm, he heard a thud against one of its walls, then a muffled scream. He flinched, but instead of turning back and reproaching his granddaughter, he continued walking with long, decisive steps towards the kitchen. Simon was usually very lenient because Zara never gave him any headaches, but he discovered now that his trust had been abused.
He hadn't been gone for too long, only two days, or was it three? He wasn't sure. When he reached the kitchen, he sat down at the minuscule table in its corner and looked up at the calendar hanging underneath the wall-clock. Simon had been gone for two days, he had incorrectly counted the current one as the third. Simon placed the laptop on the table, flipped it open, and logged into his profile.
Zara had finally brought up his absence and that had stumped him. It had been something of a regularity until the last couple of weeks, his frequent disappearances, but she had never seemed to notice, or at least, if she did, didn't say a word about it. He thought he had been careful about it, lining it up with the times she was asleep—because he worked in the afternoons and evenings—but somehow, she had still figured it out. It would've been a surprise had he not caught her sneaking in so late at night. That changed the game.
Simon tilted his chair back and rubbed his eyes with both fists. He so wanted to go to sleep, as work had been more demanding than usual, but he had to stay awake, to stay vigilant for an email that would come to him in exactly twenty minutes. The timing didn't make any sense to him, but it made perfect sense to them, the people who had him tied hands and feet. He was a pawn, his job was to receive instructions and execute them without asking any questions. The next ones would be enclosed in the email.
He wouldn't have had to get involved with them if his employment as a janitor at Rubair Enterprises wasn't so poorly paid. Simon could've easily subsisted on the monthly disability payments, but he didn't, because he considered that disgraceful. A disfigured leg stemming from a logging accident back in his thirties wasn't a good enough excuse for him to be a freeloader in his old age. Simon had worked for a good portion of his life and he would work until the day he died. He would do anything for his granddaughter, even if it meant breaking the law. He was seventy-years-old now, his life had been lived. What was important for him was to ensure that Zara didn't end up like him: poor, penniless, crippled, and in debt because of the wrong choices he'd made when he was younger.
Sometimes he wished that had a monotonous lifestyle like most of the people his age, one filled with repetitiveness and nonchalance. What did men his age do anyway? Did they sit on the sofa, throwing potato chips at their television screen because their favourite rugby team had yet again been humiliated by the opposition? Or did they sit back on rocking chairs, a pipe in their hand and a newspaper in the other, complaining about the rise in fuel prices?
Simon exhaled slowly, typing his email address and password into the search bar of Hotmail's homepage. When he logged in, he clicked on the inbox button, absentmindedly scrolling over twenty different advertisements for an "all-natural remedy that cures baldness," a magical pill "that burns 20 pounds in less than a month," and a dating website for senior citizens. He highlighted all of them, dragged them to the "delete" folder, and raked a hand through his hair. He scrolled back up until he reached the end of his inbox, double-checking that he hadn't accidentally missed any emails from Zara's school. Nothing and yet, it was well beyond four-thirty in the morning.
All of a sudden, the ping of new mail rang loudly across the room. Startled, he immediately stabbed the mute button on the keyboard, clutching the end of the table as he mumbled a few curses. His eyes ran over the subject line twice because he was so caught up in his emotions the first time that he hadn't understood what he had read.
URGENT MESSAGE TO ALL CLEANING STAFF, it said in its caps-locked, concern-inducing letters. That was it, the message he had been waiting for had finally arrived.
"To all cleaning staff, report to conference hall PH335 at 6:00 AM sharp. Those who are not present will have their employment terminated immediately. The Directory."
Simon read it and re-read it, hoping that maybe he had misinterpreted the italicised words. They had told him to continue working as normal—keeping an eye out for any new information that might've been useful—at least for another two weeks and report back at the end of them. The message was meant to contain the time and location of the meeting, and it did, but not for today Something serious must've come up for them to change their mind so quickly.
In no position to decline, Simon typed back a short reply, logged out of everything, and closed the screen. He stood up and grabbed his walking stick from the chair it was leaning against., then looked around for something to write on, and something to write with. When he had gotten what he needed, he scribbled a short message indicating his whereabouts; hopefully, that would deter her from asking any more questions.
Besides, he wouldn't be gone for too long. Only a couple of hours tops.
-:-
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