The Dawn of Evil

Chapter 1.2

The early morning light streamed in through the study's window, causing Chris to stir as it splashed across his face. One of his arms dangled limply off the desk and he let out an overzealous groan as he attempted to push his body upright. Stiff and sore from a night of sleeping slouched over his desk, he finally managed to right himself. Bringing his arms over his head, Chris stretched upwards, his back popping and snapping. A satisfied moan escaped his lips.

Exhaustedly, he scrubbed his eyes with his hands and yawned. He sat still for several moments, working up the resolve to rise and begin his day. Knowing that he couldn't wait any longer, he forced himself to stand.

Marching up what he had always called the 'Grand Staircase', he turned left at the landing and made his way into his master bedroom. The mahogany, four poster bed was untouched, still flawlessly made. Its luxurious, opulent bedding seemed to beckon to Chris, welcoming him into its soft, enveloping embrace. He instantly regretted not having made it upstairs and silently cursed scotch as he pulled a fresh suit and dress shirt out of the lustrous standing wardrobe. Without time to shower, he tossed his old clothes into the corner of the room and dressed himself. Reaching for a tie, he changed his mind at the last minute. In his monstrously hungover state, he was sure that the pressure of it around his throat would induce vomiting.

Trudging into the bathroom, his dress shoes echoing loudly across the marble tile, he opened the medicine cabinet and triumphantly removed the bottle of ibuprofen. Chris clutched it as though it was the key to ultimate salvation. After dumping several caplets into his hand, he swallowed them dry and prayed that they would work quickly. Chris gargled with mouthwash to rid himself of the scotch's stench, although he was sure that it was now emanating out of his pores. Having to accept it or else risk being even later, he chose the former and resolved to keep his distance from others to error on the side of caution. He didn't need a rumor about him being a drunkard circulating in the press.

Hurrying downstairs, he grabbed his computer bag fromthe foyer and rushed to the car. Chris already knew that traffic to downtownwas going to be a nightmare and he was not looking forward to it, especiallywith his hangover, which seemed to be growing stronger with every passingmoment. There is no rest for the wicked, he reminded himself as he rolledhis black sedan out of the garage and onto the picturesque oak-tree linedstreet.