Wrestling the Kraken

Vivianne

Vivianne

Vivanne sat in her room, eating breakfast. How did it all come to this? She wondered, taking a sip of her coffee. She had never meant for any of it to get this far. Does her own pain not matter in any of it? The more she tried to assert herself, the more cast off she became. Disposable. Yes, that was it. Though she was aware of her value and talent, the world would only see a disposable, dismissible girl. An afterthought, in the grand scheme of things. Was she destined to never rise above the opinions of "just okay" in the circus, in dating, in life? They would all say, "She was just okay."

The agent guarding her after the recent attack, handed her the morning paper that just arrived. She had one agent in the room with her at all times, one patrolling the lobby and floors, and another in plain clothes on the street. They were hoping for a second attempt on her life. She was not.

The attack itself was another matter. Why was she a target? She thought they had an understanding, though replaying it over in her mind, there was never an official deal to cover past that night they met. All this time thinking she was untouchable. The killer was a bloodthirsty monster. One was just not enough, of course her card would be drawn.

She hadn't told Dante or the FBI agents that she knew who the killer was and that this was the most likely reason for the attempt on her life. She was a loose end. Disposable.

Vivanne turned her attention to the newspaper beside her, then froze, noticing the headline. Placing a hand on top of the words, as if somehow she could check the validity by touch, she repeated them to herself. Then rage overtook her without hesitation and she tossed her breakfast clear off the table.

"What's wrong?" The agent asked, rising with one hand on his holster.

In a swift motion, she hid the paper inside her robe, rising from the table. "Nothing. I thought I saw a bug. I'm heading to my room to get changed." She said and hurried, locking the door behind her. Taking out the paper from underneath her robe, she read the article, pacing the room as she did.

Mouthing the words as she skimmed the lines, her heart pounded and skipped in her chest with every incredulous lie. She threw the paper onto the bed. The pages fluttered in the air, then slid out across the sheets. Crossing her arms, she continued pacing the room with added vigor.

After all I've done for them, she thought. Me? They want to throw me under? Take the blame!

Her anger rose to an unbearable height and the room was starting to feel suffocating. She needed out. She needed action. She needed revenge. Yanking drawers and slamming closets, she got dressed. Now, how to slip the guards?