Forget Me Not

Chapter Three: The Contract

I said everything that came to mind.

“That e-mail meant everything to me. I invested so much time in trying to perfect it and without batting an eyelash, you downright insult my work. I don’t know how powerful you are, but I just want you to know that at the end of the day, business means absolutely nothing. I’m not a Maya Angelou or a Stephenie Meyer, but I have potential. It’s your loss, not mine if you can’t see that.”

Refusing to let him speak, I attempt to walk away. But, he pulls my arm and slams me against the wall. I struggle, but he locks me with his arms and looks directly into my flushed face.

Staring into my eyes, he says, “You’re right. Business means absolutely nothing at the end of the day…It’s everything. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep mine alive so you have no right to interfere with my methods. You know nothing about this industry and if you did, you would just sit quietly and think about how to improve that manuscript of yours. Since you’ve pushed me this far for my attention, I’ll give you some feedback. The storyline is original, but that’s all it has going for it. Your protagonists are dynamic, lacking passion throughout their relationship both at the beginning and end.”

I interrupt him, “Love isn’t as elaborate as everyone makes it out to be.”

He scoffs, "Well, that's what the audience wants. They're hopelessly obsessed with the idea of love. They need something they can fantasize about and that's precisely what your story lacks: demand so what makes you think your work can benefit my company?"

I explode, pouring my emotions out. "I'm sorry that not everyone sees books as a means of profit. Writing helped me escape when I was in a dark place and I only hoped that my stories would inspire my readers. It's people like you that has spoiled this industry, using it as a social ladder for wealth and power. You disgust me."

Tightening the little distance between us, he slams the wall beside me with bare palms. The look in his eyes changes as if something terrible inside of him was reawakened. "I don't give a fuck about your preferences. I think you should step off the soapbox you voluntarily stood up on because I don't recall signing up to hear your sob story."

Lifting my chin up, he brings me closer to his lips and whispers, "Let me make this clear, I create and destroy authors by the minute. Without even starting, I can easily annihilate the career you've set yourself on. You don't know me, but hell, I can read you like an open book. You want to somehow magically change the world with your elaborate vocabulary and expressive statements about life, but guess what? I've already met amateurs like you that have exactly the same motives as you do. And out of all the ones I've met, you don't particularly stand out."

As he smiled at me, I felt the tears in my eyes ready to fall at any moment. For some reason, I found myself opening up to Troy as if I knew him. I wasn't looking for his sympathy; I simply wanted him to understand me. I didn't write with the prospect of a lucrative future or celebrity and he needed to know that. I think it's unusual how we often feel more naked, stripping off our emotions versus our clothes. I guess part of the reason to blame is our innate fear of vulnerability. We're born with the instinct to protect our innermost thoughts. They're hidden in such fragile vases that when someone hammers them down, it's as if our whole world shatters. We essentially become lost, wondering how people will manage the pieces that have fallen. When they don't respond in the way we expect them to, we tend to break down. Saving me from the imminent tears, however, a man who appeared to be in his early twenties steps into the hallway.