Corrupt

2. Not So Undercover

        2. Not So Undercover

        The feel of the camera weighting against my palms was a reassuring feeling. My fingers ran across the smooth edges of the device, skimming the assortment of buttons and levers as my eyes scanned the scenery around me.  Usually walking through the woods held a certain relaxation for me, though today it did nothing to calm the anxiousness rising in my chest.

        I raised the camera to my eye, only to lower it a second later in frustration, when the feeling didn’t leave me.

        Inspiration was hard to come by and it certainly couldn't be forced. I ran a single hand through my mane of hair, squeezing my eyes shut.

        “Where are you working? Are you even earning enough?” My father questioned and I could hear the sneer that would certainly be positioned on his face. He had never supported my decision to move to Seattle in order to pursue a passion. He had stressed on numerous occasions that he didn't believe I would be able to support myself making, displaying, and selling art.

        "That’s not your problem.” I tried to reel in the hostility that was beginning to boil in my gut. I could feel the words that I wanted to spew out beginning to make their way up my throat. I had a temper, that fact certainly wasn't a secret, though unleashing my anger on him would only have negative effects.

        “You’re my daughter, Savannah, of course it is.” He spoke, his condescending tone only succeeding in infuriating me more. “How’s your house? Good condition? Good security?” The mocking edge to his voice reminded me of the fact that he didn't believe what I was doing was what I should be doing. In his mind, Hank Stone’s daughter was destined for better things, bigger than art galleries and photography and working ten hour shifts at a hole-in-the-wall diner. In his mind, I was to be a lawyer, a doctor, something that would be highly respected and, even more so, make me highly rich.

        “The house is fine.” I responded shortly, running my hand over the counter-top in my kitchen. He didn’t respond and I knew my lie had fallen short. I gripped the phone tightly as my eyes scanned my quant kitchen. The room surely never would have met his standards, though it had surely exceeded mine. I had fallen in love with the chipped yellow walls and the older white cabinets that hung awkwardly off their hinges. It wasn't anything fancy, though it was cozy and more than I needed.

            “And how’s the gallery?” He spat out, the word was spoken with distaste.

            “Business is good.” My gaze flickered to the window, my teeth digging into my lip at my lie. The fact that my only job was my one at the diner was clear that business was non-existent.

            He exhaled sharply. “Savannah, obviously this isn’t working for you. It’s been five months and you’re still working at that diner and living in a shit-hole. You need to come back home.”

            I squeezed my eyes shut, refusing to his words. My parents had never been one to support my dreams. From the start of high-school I had known that I didn't want to go to a university, which they rejected straight away. They knew that I had a passion for art and creating and their refusal to it never went unnoticed by me.

            Hearing my silence, he continued “Your mother and I are willing to help you get back on your feet at home. This idea is ridiculous, honey. You need to come back. We can get you enrolled in a school and we'll even help pay for an apartment for you.”

            Feeling my last string of calmness break, I let the words I had been dying to say spill out. “You aren’t ever going to realize that I’m content with my life here. I like what I do and I’m willing to work for it! Can't you see that? I don't want your help or your money.”