Fanon:The Woods of Bridgeport

Skyler
"This isn't fair!" I exploded at my boss Thursday morning. "It wasn't my fault! Does it ever occur to you that paparazzi figure stuff out alone?" Edmund, a sniveling coward of a head of a detective agency, simply wrinkled up his nose in that infuriating, prim way of his and whined, "I apologize, Miss Wright, but the Hamming case was top secret! That ending up in the newspaper, on top of everything else, puts your job in a very precarious position. I'm afraid I must-- ah -- dismiss you from the  Howards Agency. I will expect your badge within the week." What I did next makes my stomach turn today. I groveled. "Pleeeeeeeaaaaaaaase, Mr. Howards. I need this job! There's nowhere else I can work!" "That's understandable," he muttered, then continued louder, proving how much he loves being groveled at. "If you insist, Miss Wright. Within a month, get a case, complete it, make a satisfactory report, deposit the agency's portion of the compensation, and I may reconsider." "Thank you! I won't fail! Thank you!" I ran out of there as fast as possible to avoid barfing all over his front.

It seems like I assumed that cases would be so much easier to pick up now that my job depended on it. But no, it's never that easy without seeming desperate. But within two hours of case hunting, I actually was getting desperate. I loved my job. I was snoopy by nature, and I got paid to do it. Just kidding. I liked being a detective because what I learned about people helped me in my life experiences. I liked it cause I was good at it. There are a bunch of reasons. But lately I'd mouthed off over client confidentiality even within the agency {I was for it} and I'd gotten sick and tired of being expected to let everybody else walk right over me,just because I'm fairly new. I have a big mouth when it comes to my negative opinions. I biked home, which was a small house, but with the indescribable feeling about it that comes of so many memories made in one place. I rented it at the moment, as soon as I found out that I could live here again, but I could lose it again if I got fired. I rested my hand on the doorframe, just under where I had scratched my initials as a kid. I'm usually non-sentimental, blunt, but I could lose more than my job and Dad's house. No one else would ever hire me, as being a detective is all I'm good for. I might not even be able to keep an apartment. I sighed and stepped inside. There on the little table next to the door was a picture of Dad and a mom I barely remembered. Only a few good memories, before they started to fight. I woke up, and she wasn't there. As far as I can remember, that was the last time I cried. All Dad told me was it wasn't my fault, but I heard my name enough to doubt him. I shook myself. Why was I thinking about this now? I'd known for years, and I had more crucial fish to fry. I put the picture down. I was exhausted. I flopped down on the couch and fell asleep. In the middle of the night a dull thud woke me up, but I thought it was my imagination.