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14
Melanie stepped out of her car at precisely twelve thirty. She walked towards the bank with a wry satisfaction in her mind, but yet all the time, every step she took, she felt helplessness and despair, as if she wasn't in control of her life, and her actions were simply dictated by a higher authority.
The bank’s automatic doors slid open with remark. She realised exactly how insignificant and helpless she was, and the taunts in her mind instantly began, worse than ever, a dominant surge of suicidal impulses.
“JUMP! Don't think about the pain.”
“Go home. You don't belong here.”
“You won't feel anything so don't worry.”
“Would you just realise that this is the final pain you have to endure?”
“You're too cowardly to take the immense pain that will end all pain.”
“You're a failure.”
“YOU HAVE FAILED.”
"Can I help you?"
Finally, a voice not from within. Melanie opened her eyes and saw the bank's concierge looking up at her, inquisitive, and just wanting to do a job.
"Yes, Sorry," Melanie withdrew the money she needed.
Once she had the money in her purse, safely concealed form the eyes of the public, Melanie stepped out of the bank, heading towards the real estate agency next door. She had almost forgotten to pay the rent, and if she had forgotten, she would have had more to deal with apart from her own mental health.
She walked into the real estate agency, not paying any particular attention to her surroundings as if she were disinterested in life, not really wanting to know anything further about her actions. She walked up to the counter, handing over her money as though she were a robot.
Why should I care? I always set my life up nice and 'happy' but I can always lose it so easily. Everything seems hopeless and out of reach… I don't want to really continue with anything. I'm drained… I can't think straight… and I am… unwell. At least I've admitted it now. God damn it. I just want to escape. To die. To end my life… hell I just can't be bothered.
She walked out after paying, not really caring about anything. She got into her car, starting it and heading quickly towards her meeting. She knew that this was vital to her dream but there was the nagging uncertainty of what if constantly calling at the back of her mind.
This was not all. The voices in her head were telling her of more and more highly obscene concepts, food for thought that could have made her throw up. That could have been because she’d been eating like shit.
She didn't bother to try and block the crazy thoughts out... Instead vouching to herself that she would remove them at the next red light.
The next red light never seemed to come, and when she rolled into the car park adjacent to the restaurant, she quickly opened the glove compartment, fumbling for her utility knife - The last resort. She found it, and impatient, seeing the time on her watch, slashed through the dark and moist band, accidentally taking some flesh with it.
The watch fell to the floor of the car with a barely detectable clatter. Gripping the knife firmly in her hand, she dug it into her wrist, causing the skin to part, and the crimson stains of coagulated, dark blood in the surrounding area was replaced by a gorgeous curtain of bright, luscious red, like fresh paint on an old wall.
Still bleeding, though staunched the purple top she was wearing, she threw the knife under the passenger seat, and stepped out of the car, manuscript in hand heading towards the entry of the restaurant. She reached the reception area of the fine restaurant, but she ignored the elegance and class, more intent on getting the meeting over and done with, as she was insane with anxiety.
“I'm here to attend a reservation with a Mr. Smith.” The clerk looked up from the booking sheet smiling.
“Welcome. Right this way ma'am.” Melanie followed him, not really wanting to go through with the meeting, but sensed her dreams were in reach, and just continued, a mindless robot unaware of choices.
She could feel her dream so close, but yet in her mind it was so far that she seemed far too insignificant to be important to make a difference. Her wrist was still stinging, and nothing reminded her of her own hopelessness more than the warm, moist and sticky blood slowly pouring out of her wrist. It would stop eventually, but she always hated the uncomfortable feeling of having to conceal her wounds, a challenge which was paramount at the present moment.
She felt stupid for having lashed out at herself, again.
“Here is your table. I am sure that Mr. Smith will be here shortly.” Melanie nodded, sitting down, slightly out of her comfort zone. It was all too flash and formal for her. She would have been happy having the meeting over a coffee and piece of cake at any normal cafe, but it had to be high class. That was one thing that she had never been able to bear from the moment she started living on her own.
She fidgeted in her seat, really uncomfortable with her surroundings and secretly dreading meeting Mr. Smith. She didn't know what to say when after what seemed an eternity a middle-aged man sat down at the table, introducing himself with an extended hand. “Hi. I'm Mr. Smith form Python Publications.” She took his hand, surprised with the sudden weakness of her own grip.
He appeared non-threatening and friendly enough as all standard businessmen. He was dressed formally; a dark suit wrapped his body. He appeared fatigued, weary of bad deals. He carried a briefcase, which was then promptly placed onto he table, its latches opening with two rhythmic gun barrel clicks and from within it, he removed a thick folder containing a manuscript.
It was hers.
“Melanie, my wife was astonished when she read this manuscript, and as I have also read it, I can tell you that we can sell a lot of copies of this novel.” He flipped through the pages of the manuscript, obviously looking for a certain part of the novel. “Ah…” he paused before continuing, after obviously finding what he was looking for. “Here is the paragraph that has made me eager to see this novel in print. You should be happy with this paragraph… It is the one that will make your dreams come true.”
He had obvious read her standard cover letter.
He began to read:
“Hiding behind my mask of seclusion and segregation, I sit, watching waiting for anything that I can identify as an opportunity. I look into your eyes and think - What would you look like without them in your skull? It's not because I'm a sadist or a psychopath… It's just the fact that well… I'm not here. I'm not with the ones that are defined as 'sane'.
“Something our readership will appreciate, as we cater to a young adult audience that wants … something ... more challenging to read” He smiled, looking up towards Melanie, making her feel like a deity. Her interpretation of this was that she was going to get her novel published, but she did not feel the elation that she suspected would be evident should that actually occur.
Melanie halted in her mind, uncertain having just realised that the passage he had read out was from the novel she had sent off yesterday with the courtesy of “Express Postage”. She didn't expect it to be that fast.
Her mind stuttered, and it was evident that Mr. Smith had picked this up. “I apologise Mr. Smith, but I should have said something about me sending another Manuscript when I spoke to your secretary on the phone.”
“That's quite fine Melanie, but you see, this can be to my benefit and also yours. These novels I can see as being very profitable. I understand that schools are looking for these types of novels for more mature readers in order to increase their positive interpretation of people with mental illnesses. This does however mean that we must do some light editing, such as changing certain scenes to make them more depersonalised in order to distance the reader from the characters, in order to allow them to see that the character, and not they themselves, are slipping away.”
Melanie spoke quickly, as though she only had a set section of time to say everything that needed to be said at that point. “Mr. Smith… I can tell you now that you have made me happy. I will be more than eager to work with your editorial team to make these changes. You see… Ever since I was a teenager in high school, failing English due to it being so easy... You see all the work was so effortless that I couldn't even be bothered doing it, so I began writing, only I haven't stopped. It's an obsession, like a drug… Once I start, I can't stop… I found it impacting my 'day' job.”
“What is your other 'job' if I may ask Melanie?”
“I was a singer… Until I got fired yesterday. Apparently, there were younger, more profitable artists available for recording, so they dumped me and my contract.”
“I'm sorry to hear that, but I'm sure that if your music is anywhere as near as good as this novel, you should have no trouble finding another recording studio to distribute your music.”
“You're kind, Mr. Smith, but I feel as if though I have to move on from that, but you do have a point. Sometimes… I just…”
“Anything to drink? Are you ready to order?” The waiter intruded the conversation and removed the focus from Melanie's conversation to the menu. Mr. Smith instructed the waiter what to bring for himself, but as Melanie looked at the menu, she repulsed, captured by the stench of superiority and class. She didn't really want to eat any of the items on the menu, but finally came to a conclusion by ordering the most tasteless option on the menu - Pasta.
Melanie poured herself a glass of the expensive looking table champagne and then offered some to her host, he accepted the offer, and she poured it into his glass. Smith observed the liquid pooling into his glass and remarked “This is decent champagne, but this restaurant has beautiful food, and that's all that matters to me.” Melanie half nodded, wanting to drink the whole bottle of champagne in a combination of celebration and despair.
“I'm not really one who cares about the style or class of food or anything really. I believe that it creates too many social barriers affecting behaviour, thus making people far less likely to succeed and flourish. Food is food, drink is drink. Anyway… I'm babbling on now, aren't I? I think I'll stop.”
“No, I agree. It's just that I have become used to all of this class and aristocracy. Look on the bright side though - at least the champagne has alcohol in it.”
“Alcohol is Alcohol.” She remarked.
"Cheers to that.”
The two glasses clashed, before both of them downed the beverage quickly, almost as if it were a shot of spirits rather than champagne.