Crown of Sins - Chaelisa

-Chapter Thirty Three-

*Lisa's POV*

I don't even look at the clock in my room. Or the one in my car. And especially not the one in the building when I get into work. The time doesn't matter. Nothing really matters at this point.

Besides, I know it's the middle of the night. But that doesn't stop me from walking into the office and up to my desk like it's the middle of the fucking day on a Wednesday.

I feel like I could probably punch someone's head off if they looked at me the wrong way, but I'm doing my best to breathe through that.

Slow breaths in until my lungs feel as if they might burst. Then I hold onto it, keeping the air inside until my vision starts to go a little warped. And finally I let it out as slow as I possibly can. It kind of works. Mostly.

My hands are still shaking whenever I accidentally look at them, and my left eye keeps twitching like it's trying to keep the beat of some song I can't hear. The breathing hasn't helped any of that. But it works well enough anyway.

At my desk, I'm tempted to start slamming drawers and throwing around my perfectly stacked paperwork. But that wouldn't hurt anyone except future me. And I'm out for someone else's blood. So I flip the switch on my computer and wait. And wait.

I almost wish I needed coffee, just for something to do while the ancient piece of shit boots up. I keep breathing, and it helps a little more. So by the time my computer is on, some agent so green it could be his first week comes up to me thinking he's being cute, and I manage not to shoot him in the knee.

"You're sure in here late," he says as I'm on the way back from the bathroom just to splash some water on my face. I don't know his name, or even recognize his bland face and black, curly hair. But that's probably better.

"Yeah well at least I don't have a curfew to worry about. Feel free to hurry home before you break yours any worse," I snap while stomping back to my desk.

It's not my finest insult, but I'm just glad it's not something I'll lose my job over. Because I have enough worries about that as it is.

When I sit down, it takes a moment for my brain to settle down enough to focus on what I need to do next.

Looking off into space, trying to get a hold on all that's changed in the last few days, my stomach sours at the smell in the building, too-strong cleaners and too many different bodies all in one.

Not that there's anything I can do about it. So I move my hand over to the computer mouse and start what I've been putting off. It only takes a few clicks to get to Roseanne's file. I have the line of steps memorized now.

And even though I've read it a hundred times, I'm so fucking ready to take her down regardless of my feelings. Rereading the same things I have for weeks, I search for what I need to bury her.

My heart be damned; she's going down. And not in the wonderful way she did just an hour or two ago. But it doesn't take long before my stomach starts sinking even farther than it had before.

It's almost as if there are weights sitting inside, pulling me more and more into the depths of whatever this feeling is. Despair maybe.

I mean, I don't really know what I was thinking. If we had anything she'd already be in custody. So reading this shit over again wasn't ever going to help. But still. The wounds reopen, and I drop my head into my hands with the longest sigh I've ever let out before.

It doesn't matter that she has my phone. Even with that, I don't have enough to pin on her to do a single fucking thing. I can't see anything going past my pleas.

"Fuck," I say while dragging my knuckles over my puffy eyes and way-too scruffy cheeks. Fucking hell. And then I click out of the windows I have open on my computer. Knowing exactly what's coming next doesn't make it a whole lot easier.

There's still a knife entering my heart as my fingers, shaking, move to the keyboard. Not to mention the knife she twisted into my back still stinging. It's too much altogether. But I type the words anyway.
There's not much else I can do.

To whom it may concern, with deepest regrets, but steadfast inflexibility - I henceforth resign from my position with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, to begin immediately.

Sincerely,
Former Agent Lisa Manoban

It physically hurts to type the words, like each letter is another papercut that will never heal somewhere extra painful.

The webbing between my fingers, the spot where thigh meets groin, the inside of my nostrils. It's horrible.
And there's a choking in my throat that won't quite move, despite my ability to breathe continuing.

Swallowing doesn't help, and neither does standing. I could throw up or pass out in the next moment, and neither would surprise me.
I read what I've just written again. Then about five more times, trying to think of something more substantial to add.

Years in training, even more with different teams, always titled that special word I used to dream about: agent. And it comes to an end like this. With barely three pathetic lines of goodbye, my heart in a vice.

But finally, my hand moves, my finger hovering over the button that will print the letter.