Truth?

This is from one of my literature assignments this year. Do not copy/plagiarise as this is my original work and it is copyrighted. Do enjoy...

The truth? You would think it to be easy. It's right there, right in front of me, taunting me each time I desperately try to grasp it in my shaking, sweaty palms. It's almost impossible, but before the sharp thorns destroy my insides turning them into decomposed mush, I must relive it, even if it means revealing the dark, diseased side of things.

I have spent many hours in Henry Watton's office sitting and waiting for his arrival. It has always been something to look forward to, his flowering smile and his rich presence signified by the woody musk and hidden floral cologne that would linger under my nose. I know I was only his assistant and nothing more, but I couldn't help the excitement and longing that consumed me each time I entered his office. But this night was different. I knew from the moment I let my curious hands pull his computer onto my lap that I had fallen far too deep into the ravenous thorns of his withering rose garden.

Henry's desk was neat and empty from anything endearing or affectionate. Only a vase of wilting red roses and his laptop sat upon its cold surface with the dark, smudged screen beckoning me to wake it. Even as his assistant, Henry had always been secretive and never let me read any of his personal emails, only ever giving me enough detail so I may reply accordingly. I had never pushed any further for I had no reason to suspect him hiding anything. He was my boss after all. Someone I admired, someone I longed to be near, intoxicated by his entire being.

Pressing the spacebar, a dull light blossomed on my face. Open on the screen was Henry's email inbox. I moved the laptop cursor so it hovered over the ominous red drafts button, the number '1' looming next to it. One move of my finger, the smallest amount of pressure and the secrets that were hidden within the drafted email would be mine. Mine. I don't really know why I felt as though what I was doing was almost criminal. I was his assistant after all.

But when I let my finger press the button, I was faced with the putrid reality of the meeting.

You must understand. The itching feeling that claws its way up your back until it chokes you from inside. The sickening sound that rips through your ears, making every muscle in your tender body convulse.

In front of me was an incomplete email addressed to the court, written in bold red writing. It said, 'I plead guilty to the fraudulent activity of laundering money and consequently unjustly stealing the company's rightful earnings.' But there was no name or signature taking ownership.

The screen dimmed and my heart thudded against my chest as I stared into the reflection of my blood shot eyes looming behind the dishevelled locks of hair as though it were a prison containing the cracking shell of a demon. That wasn't me. Surely, it wasn't. But with every flicker of my eyes and quiver of my swollen lips, the dark figure on the screen followed.

"Dorian." His voice was smooth and dripping in confidence. I turned around to face him, after hurrying to place his laptop back on the desk. Henry's figure stood in the doorway of his office, the light behind him painting him in the perfect silhouette sinking into the darkness which seemingly suffocated the room. He was tall with broad shoulders and cleanly swept hair slicked to perfectly frame his rosy, chiselled cheekbones. He was sickeningly beautiful.

"I see you have arrived," he said. His soft footsteps dropped onto the ground and echoed throughout the room, becoming one with the light tap, tap, tap of the rain against the windows overlooking the violent storm towering over the city below.

"Mr Watton," I said, voice cracking as I tried to stand quickly from my chair, but before I could make an escape, I felt the sharp touch of his hand piercing my shoulder.

"Henry," he said, his cool voice carving through the sickening air that seemed to choke me the closer I leaned into his touch.

"Just Henry, Dorian." He turned so he stood with his back to me, facing out towards the raging storm, hands on his hips as though to command the striking anger of the storm.

"Henry," I whispered as though his name was forbidden ambrosia making me weak. I drank it in, consumed it until I felt my lungs gasping for an ounce of air. But that was it... His strategy all along.

Now sitting across from me, his hands slid along the desk reaching for what I thought was perhaps my own, but instead he turned the laptop, its screen now dimmed. Henry's nimble fingers pressed keys on the trackpad and I watched as his delicate lips turned upwards. The clicking of the letters stopped and he turned the blinding screen towards me.

"Sign," his voice was low, almost impossible to differentiate against the rumbles of the dull sky outside.

"Pardon," I asked. I forced my eyes to focus on the screen, blinking away the nerves that seemed to circle me when I was drowned in Henry's presence. His sweet, intoxicating cologne was once an excitement highlighting a wonder that I needed to know intimately. But now... I felt as though that soft mist was thickening inside of me, poisoning my entire being as it lingered inside my nose. I was suffocated.

I dared to look up as though to question the words in the email he had strung together like a god feeding a poisonous nectar to their trusting victims. My name now sat at the bottom of the page, awaiting a signature.

"What?" My voice shook as I glanced between the words and Henry. "But... I-"

"Sign," he said, his voice even more forceful than before. I tried to search his eyes for a reason the man I had once longed to know would be so cruel, so dismissive, but I was only met with the rotting of an empty stare.

Looking back on the time I spent as his assistant, I should have seen the reality of my role in his life shrivelling earlier. All those times he rushed me out of the office, and the hushed phone calls in the corner of his cold, shadowed room, and the abundance of checks he stashed into his pockets each evening before leaving the tall building. I had allowed myself to be blinded by the sweet nectar within his flowering presence. But now, as the petals of his facade wilted, his hidden sharp thorns became visible.

When they told me the eyes are the gateway to the soul, I never believed them, but when his perfect face contorted and his budded lips curved into a sadistic grimace as he stared at my shaking and sweat ridden hands, I knew it was all too real.

Lightening flickered throughout the room, illuminating his face, and I swear I saw his shrivelled soul clawing its way out from his cold, distant eyes. And only for that second did I witness as it reached desperately to grab ahold of anything, so that it may wind its way around it like the crushing grip of an ivy vine. I suppose I now know why he favoured me. I was the exit. The perfect escape from his twisted prison.

It was time the public knew how much of a liar and a fake Henry Watton was. He was a hungry monster who used my admiration and trust and manipulated it so that I had no choice but to take the fall.

I have revealed my truth. Statement closed.