Gibson told his business partner he was heading out for lunch on his day off, and the man simply smiled and said, “Be careful. And don’t forget your phone. It will get you killed in this city.” Gibson didn’t know if it was the joke or the fact that the man knew who he was talking about, but something inside him tightened up just a bit at the remark. The rest of the day was spent trying to figure out what could have happened with his phone, which had gone missing during the night. But after all that work, he finally found it, wedged between two bookshelves in the back room of the bookshop where he lived. He picked the device up off the floor and put his clothes back on before leaving the shop, but then stopped by his desk and took a few extra minutes to pick up his badge and gun and pocketknife, as well as a small package that contained a spare set of keys to his apartment, in case he couldn’t make it home. But when he arrived back in the shop, he was surprised to find his partner al
Gibson’s office is an odd mix of modern and old fashioned. It’s spacious and clean but the furniture was built by someone more than a decade ago. Even with the large windows allowing sunlight in he finds it hard to get his work done, which is precisely why he prefers his room downstairs on the ground floor. This time the sun doesn’t come through the glass like a spotlight. There’s no one there for him to see when he works at night so he can just do what he wants without being bothered. Today, however, something has caught his eye as he walks past. He stops at his desk and picks up a picture frame sitting next to one of his files that contains a black and white photograph of a teenage girl, probably about twelve years old, with light brown hair pulled back into two pigtails. She seems pretty normal looking except for her bright eyes and a slight smile that doesn’t quite reach them. Her name is Hannah and she’s only four. A little too young to be out in public without adult supervision,
Gibson was a busy guy, he always had been. His days were numbered and his work schedule was a mess, but he still pushed on, pushing through the exhaustion of his body and mind alike. A part of him would’ve liked to blame it on the adrenaline coursing through his veins at night, or maybe on just how much time he spent working at home. There wasn’t really a right reason for his fatigue in the first place. It came out of nowhere. One minute he was walking to a job interview, the next his phone chimed with an incoming text message. The moment his eyes landed on the screen there was a new string of messages pouring into his inbox:You are the only one who understands me. I can’t talk about myself or my life, because it’s so complicated. I don’t want anyone to pity me, I don’t even know why I’m telling you this… But now that I’ve started… You’re the only person who knows. You get it, don’t you? It isn’t just some weirdo who gets me? It’s not just some guy who is trying to make me feel bet
Whenever Gibson returned from work , he always went straight to the bathroom, because even though it didn’t feel like he had anything really pressing to do or important to do, a couple hours spent alone in there was usually an hour of self pity before he left for the evening. So he would sit on the cold tiles with his head in hands for a while and count backwards from ten thousand. He would try to think about all of the terrible things that could have happened to him today. He would start off by thinking how good his day had been, how he hadn’t seen anyone he knew from work, but then he remembered the look of horror on his wife’s face when he told her about his job, the way she’d stared at him like she wanted to kill him, and just couldn’t find any words in her mouth…And so on and so forth. The cycle repeated itself over and over, until he felt sick enough to leave his room and go take a shower. That made everything a bit less bleak. He never stayed long enough to see what time it wa
Gibson sat in his office and wondered how exactly he had gotten here."Oh for Pete's sake," he groaned, "not again!" The office was a mess, papers were strewn everywhere, even the ceiling looked like it could collapse any moment. He was going to have to get that carpet replaced. And the coffee maker had broken this morning so he'd probably end up with some black goop. And the printer had just quit working on the third iteration of one of his stories and that wouldn't look great either. He'd been putting it off since Monday. The next day was Sunday. The deadline would be tomorrow. But he hadn't gotten anywhere on his current piece of work and all he wanted right now was to get home. His apartment was cold and drafty without all the heat and the air conditioner wasn't running. He couldn't sleep at night, the sheets always seemed damp. It was driving him crazy. "And what I need is a vacation! No offense, but my boss won't give me one if he thinks I'm slacking off-"He stopped talking as s
When Gibson returned home from work with the latest in the pile of manuscripts he’d written in his free time for the past year, he was surprised to see the sun still up even though it was well past eight o'clock in the morning. It was late for him. He’d been working all night, and although it wasn't particularly exhausting or physically draining on the average, he could barely keep his eyes open any more. And after he had a long day at work... Well, you know. He hadn't slept much this week. Even the fact that he was finally getting some sleep after such an eventful week made him feel exhausted. He dropped his briefcase down by the couch and collapsed into it with a yawn, rubbing his eyes blearily as he sat there, waiting for his computer to boot up. The screen lit up and began its usual startup sequence, but after several seconds nothing happened other than the usual static. Gibson stared at the display blankly, confused. The last thing he remembered was plugging it in before heading
The manager spoke to Gibson harshly. “Are you sure about this?” She held a cup of coffee in one hand and a piece of paper with a hastily drawn diagram on it. It was obviously not the first time she had tried to talk him out of his decision to become a writer. “Yes, ma’am,” he told her flatly, as he took the mug from her and finished off the rest of it. He set the empty mug back down on the table. They were at the diner at the edge of town for lunch. He felt hungry. This was the fifth day in a row where he hadn't eaten any breakfast or lunch and his stomach was starting to churn. “There’s nothing else I can do, ma’am. I’m trying everything. It doesn't matter what I use the materials for." The words came out harsher than he intended, but he wasn’t sorry about that. The manager frowned again at the drawing he'd given her, as though it might tell her something more, then handed him the paper. “This is all I have, ma’am. Please give me your advice.” She looked around the restaurant quick
When Gibson saw his manager’s face for the first time in what felt like years, it was only as an abstract concept that he recognised him. He’d grown used to seeing a man of about thirty or forty with grey hair and a beard; one who could easily pass for an old hippy or a middle class businessman if not for the fact that he had no such facial features, and yet had retained the youthful appearance of a young man in his early twenties – though perhaps Gibson himself might have looked more like that were it not for the bags beneath his eyes and the thinness that seemed to stretch from his scalp down into his neck. It was strange to see him in a full length suit, but Gibson would recognise that face anywhere. His eyebrows twitched when he saw him, his mouth opened slightly, and he couldn’t help the small sigh that escaped him before he spoke. “So, you’re not dead then.”The other man let out a soft laugh, almost as surprised by Gibson’s words as he’d been by his appearance. “No, I am not. T