Monster In Me

Charlie - Egg Sandwich

My eyes open to a bright light seeping in through my window, the white curtains doing no good at keeping it out. I blink as the brightness overwhelms me, but the light doesn't go away. I open my eyes again, and this time I force myself to be lifted into a seated position. I see Mark is already up, probably making breakfast. Images of delicious egg sandwiches and bacon sides fill my brain as my stomach growls. Then I remember that it's Monday again. No egg sandwiches or bacon or freshly brewed coffee for me. I have to go to work at the office. I find it hard to look forward to dry biscuits and bland coffee, and I walk into the kitchen with a slouch in my shoulders and a frown on my face.

"Good morning, Charlie." I look up from my shoes to see a big smile on my husband's face, and my mood is lifted by his happy grin. I see three plates on the table instead of two, one of them holding an egg sandwich and a pile of sizzling bacon strips. My stomach grumbles again, and I look at Mark with bewilderment.

"Is that-"

"Yes," he says, cutting me off. "That's for you."

"But-"

"Stop stressing and just sit down." He pulls out the chair, and nudges me toward it until I shrink down into it. He then turns around to plop an omelet onto the smaller plate, cut into small bites for a five-year-olds mouth.

"Violet!" he calls loudly. I flinch. I then hear small feet dash into the room. Violet takes in a deep sniff, and then sighs dreamily.

"Ah, yummy, yummy eggs. I love eggs!" Violet exclaims, just before taking the high chair next to my much larger one. The last plate doesn't remain empty for long, for Mark drops another omelet onto that one. He places a fork on each of our dishes, and we all chow down after he takes a seat diagonal from mine. Then a thought revives in my brain.

"Mark, what about work? I'll be late if I stay much longer." Mark lets the fork drop from his lips, chewing his last bite before immediately answering my question. Violet's eyes are resting on us now, no longer shoving fork-fulls of omelet into her tiny mouth. Mark clears his throat, and then speaks.

"The office called about an hour ago, but you were still sleeping, so I picked it up..." he began, his gaze avoiding mine, studying the yellow and white checkered table cloth instead.

"They called me in early and you didn't tell me?" I try to keep my voice steady, but my frustration burns my cheeks.

"No, no, no, they didn't call for you to come in. You see, they were letting some people go and, uh..."

"They dropped me, didn't they?" I ask, my voice calmer than I wanted it to be.

"Yes, they fired you. I'm so-"

"It's okay," I interrupt, "don't be so hard on yourself. It's not your fault." I get up out of my wooden chair and bend to give him a hug while he was sat in his.

"It'll be okay, Charlie. You can find another job. I promise." He sounded so sure of himself that I couldn't help but share his confidence.

"Dad? What's happening?" Violet's eyes were wide, filled with confusion and a slight concern. Markus turns in his seat to look at the little girl.

"Daddy won't be going to work for a while, and we won't be able to afford most of the things we can now. It'll be a while, but it shouldn't last long," Markus explains, and Violet's eyes shrink back to their original size.

"Okay," she says, before running out of the kitchen into her own room. I lower my voice now, making sure she can't hear me, although she is across the hallway.

"I should be looking for another job, right away. You don't have one, and we need to pay off the bills. " Markus's eyes drop back down to the table.

"I know, I know, you can use the computer in the den to search for offers. Also, I have the newspaper you can use to look too." He hands me a copy of the Douglas County News paper. I gratefully grab it from his hand, fold it up under my arm, and make my way to the den.

Walking up the stairs to the floor that owns the den, the upstairs bathroom, and the guest bedroom, I begin to wonder. What was the reason for my firing? What have I done wrong? I shake the thought, and turn the knob of the den's white, wooden door. Stepping inside, I notice the air is much chillier than the other rooms of the house. We haven't used this room in a long time, it seems. I shiver as I prop the door open with a shoe. I take a look around the room. There are no windows, for it used to be used as a storage room. The walls are painted brown, unlike the bright, welcoming white of the rest of the house. A desk sits in the far right corner, the old wood matching the color of the walls. To the left, boxes are stacked nearly to the low-built ceiling. Piles of old newspapers and documents are strewn near the entrance of the den, and I nearly slip on a blank piece of paper.

The desk on which the computer sat is dusty, and I blow it off as I sit down into the squeaky desk chair. I turn on the monitor, then the computer. It takes a while to load, but at least the old thing works. The screen flicks on, and I go onto the internet, searching endlessly for job offers and hiring. We just can't afford for me not to have a job.

Hours go by, and I still have no luck. No jobs in my field. Great. I remember back to when I was in college, I had studied to become a police detective, but my mother strongly opposed the work. So, I resorted to computer science, but apparently that wasn't the best choice. I decide to search for jobs in the police force, and sure enough, only a few open detective jobs are listed. I check the requirements, and the only demand is that I have a high school diploma. Lucky me. I actually have that. When I was twenty one, I attended a police academy training program, and completed it. First thing tomorrow, I told myself, I am going to see if I can get that job. Happily whistling, I scoop up the paper I hadn't needed to use, and walk back downstairs, the previous stress completely lifted now.