The House of Common Lies

Business As Usual

12.03 AM. The phone rang.

I eyed the phone anxiously. I'd been waiting for the call to come for hours, perspiration beading in the furrow of my brow as the moment I was anticipating approached. I hadn't made any effort to change into my bedclothes - there would have been no point. The call was coming, I would need to leave, and there was nothing to be done about it. No-two-ways, as they say. I had been sat rigidly on the couch, phone in hand, pulling at the frays on my all too well-worn sweatshirt, thinking more and more on the inevitability of the events to follow this call. Were the situation not so dire, it would have been almost laughable; the ruthless, the unbreakable, Miss Melinda Delores, on the edge of mental breakdown at the thought of a mere phone call. I raised the phone to my ear hesitantly.

"In exactly one hour there will be a car waiting for you outside. This is your last chance, Miss Delores. If you don't take it, you will no longer be guaranteed our protection."

There was no breath before the speaker said those few words. There was no breath following. There was no need to reply to him. A phone call devoid of pleasantries like 'hello' and 'goodbye' and 'how are you'. My role here was to listen. The manner in which he spoke was matter of fact, clipped and business-like. This was The Ultimatum, the final straw. I would have to sacrifice so much if I were to accept their offer. And if I didn't, I risked sacrificing my life. I ran a hand through my hair, eyes brimming, the hand holding the phone falling limply to my lap. The fact that I had pre-empted the call didn't take from the harsh blow that was reality. To me, this was evil that if not necessary, I would have nothing to do with. This, from a woman who dealt in evil. The sad truth was, somewhere along the line, this evil had become necessary for my own survival - an intrinsic part of my being. What had I gotten myself into?

I stood, tucking my phone into the pocket of my sweatshirt. After this point, I wouldn't need it again - but it gave me some comfort to keep it. I reached down for the rucksack to the right of my feet, eyes surveying what used to be my living room. It struck me that I might never see this room again. Even without the pictures and nick-nacks, this was home. Or what I'd tried to make home. The barely used TV set stood where it had always stood, across from the far window, from which light occasionally streamed and distorted the image on-screen. I'd always meant to move it, but it either slipped my mind or I hadn't the time. Maybe both. The walls were white and clean (though once they had been littered with head-shots of suspect politicians, timelines tracking their each and every movement, lines of yellow wool tying their secrets together), and I despaired at the fact that somehow they looked better that way. The coffee table where I had one spent hours writing, the typewriter my own personal Political Hate Machine, was now clean, devoid of the usual stacks of papers and dirty secrets. Without my influence, the place was somehow more innocent. Now it looked like a show-home, untouched by the usual brand of paranoia it had become so accustomed to.

I had a sudden impulse to destroy everything. To tear through the couch with my bare hands, to turn over the coffee table and watch the glass surface smash, spilling shards of glass across the room, a kaleidoscope of anger and shattered pieces. To throw the TV against the wall. I wanted to leave a mark; to cry out and let my frustrations go. To do something so outrageous, I just might feel a semblance of control for a moment. I had never felt so without control, and it enveloped me with sheer anger. A tear slipped down my cheek, mourning for the childish self who was not so destructive, mourning for the places, the people, I'd touched. I knew in my heart of hearts that all I'd ever really wanted to do was break everything down - and that's exactly what I'd done. Now, with it having backfired, I was at a complete loss. I was cornered. What was it they said about cornered rats? Oh yes. They bite.

I chewed on my lip, remembering my life here. There were memories of curling up in blankets with mugs of hot chocolate, all alone on the coldest nights, the weather brazen, thunder cracking outside, the sound made dull through the double glazing, but still audible enough to appreciate how safe and comfortable I could be here. But I never really had thoughts of safety in those moments, did I? All the while, my mind was calculating, focused on the notion of ruining lives, the thunder my inspiration in those moments. There were memories of friends visiting (although the flow of friends coming to see me began to taper off after a while, when they discovered that I had no interest invested in real relationships any more, no, I had far more important things on my mind. They saw through and were unnerved by my constant paranoia, the smiles lacking in the genuine warmth I once feigned so easily) sharing tea and memories I didn't care for, the misfortune of having become wrapped up in my history being the only thing I ever really had in common with any of them. There were memories of nights spent writing out dreams I'd refuse to sleep to see, favouring scheming and plotting throughout the night with eyelids heavy. There were memories of ex-lovers, unsatisfyingly short lived relationships, ended before they could get any more serious than "just sex", before my partners could ever have opportunity to figure me out. I forced my life into wretched solitude, became a hateful island of a woman. It was no enviable life, but it was mine. This place held every story I'd ever written, every life, every career, I'd purposely ruined. And now, the walls were stripped, the typewriter gone, the cruel work I'd done thrown away (but not quite over with), and I had to leave. And to truly leave, I couldn't leave any evidence of my ever having been there at all - someone might be able to track me down.

I felt a pang of regret. I'd inhibited myself from ever forming any kind of meaningful relationship. And now, the opportunity was gone. I had nothing left to share with anyone - deceit, guilt, frustration, suspicion...that was all I had to offer. My writing didn't count for anything. I had focused on exposing politicians for the entirety of my writing career, in a meagre effort to bring down my father. Chasing down the suspicions of a grieving six year old. I was no better than the likes of Perez Hilton, churning out gossip, contributing to the rumour mill. At least he didn't do his dirty work under an alias. I hadn't even the courage to own up to what I was saying. I took no responsibility. And look where it had landed me. Running, with nothing at all to leave behind. Still evading consequences I never knew would be, allowing The Alliance to dictate my every move. I considered, briefly, the idea of staying. Confronting my father. Facing up to what I'd said, what I'd done. But now, this was bigger than me. My life, my sticky, messy life, was in danger. I was far too selfish to deal with that. I was a cold, heartless bitch, prepared to let anyone else but myself face that. That was something I had to face. If I didn't, I'd go insane.

I had to stop thinking. I had to just leave. I couldn't think about others now - this wasn't the time. I hadn't found it difficult to disregard others in the past. Why now? I was hardly about to convert to altruistic ways and find myself at peace with the world, so I may as well just get on with things. I sighed, slinging the rucksack over my shoulder, my face once again stony, impassive. This was no time for weakness.

With that thought, I turned off the lights, and turned my back on what I had once called a life.

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Hello! 

This is going to be my first official story on Wattpad. Hopefully you guys find it exciting enough to keep you entertained. I'd like to take a moment to thank thiefs_ for helping me deal with the issues present in this first chapter and her unerring support (all the while putting up with my stubborn ways), and for anyone who's struggling with their writing and needs someone to coach them - she is 100% your girl.Take a moment to check out her works. As well as being a great motivator, she's a great writer. I'd also like to thank nirvanatic for the amazing cover - some artistic skill right there, am I right? I also thank you, if you've taken the time to read this. If anyone has any ideas or criticisms, I'd be extremely grateful to hear them. I'll be updating regularly, and I'd love to connect with you guys, so don't be afraid to send me a direct message.

If you liked this, give it a vote or a comment. Let me know! 

I look forward to getting to know you, and seeing where this story can take us.

Thanks again!

Chloe :)

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