The Unspoken Truth

Chapter One [Edited]

CHAPTER ONE

Annie's POV

        My scarf blew in the wind, feeling sung against my freezing pulse. I looked around at the many people walking the streets of New York. Maybe I looked it, but I wasn't some random passerby. I was a girl on a mission. A mission for justice, for equality. A mission to get a raise.

        I work in an abandoned building leaning on its own limbs to keep from toppling over onto the streets of every writer's paradise. The tattered York Gazette sign hanging above the doorway of the office is a familiar sight, having walked into the office every day for so many years. A calming gust of warm air greeted me when I opened the door.

        "Ah, Miss Morter. What a pleasant surprise," My boss said. "How can I help you?"

        "I have upped my article output by ten percent this month, sir." I said, taking the beat-around-the-bush approach.

        "This is true," he said, looking at me with skeptical eyes.

        "And I just... I think I deserve a raise," I said with finality.

        Mr. Kreysten put down his pen and raised his white eyebrows until they disappeared into his fluffy grey hair. "And I agree with you."

        "I know it'll be hard on the company but I..." I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, "Wait... You what?

        "I agree with you," he said. "I know that you are a valuable member of our company and I am more than happy to promote you to Head Editor."

        "Thank you sir." I said, my eyes lighting up at so much responsibility. Mr. Kreysten had a grim smile on his face, one that made my stomach twist in the worst way possible. One that said he was up to something. "You're sure, sir?" I asked, fighting against every instinct in my body that was telling me not to ask.

        "Yes, I am quite sure. I imagine you do not want to spend much time here on your day off, Miss Morter?" He said, clouds of amusement covering his eyes.

        "Um, yes. Sorry to interrupt, sir." I said, my voice shaking.

        "That is quite all right." Mr. Kreysten said, picking up his pen and going back to his paperwork. I open the door, the cold breeze that had chilled me before now cooled my body. The room had been especially warm today and Mr. Kreysten always put me on edge. He had an almost cosmic aroma that surrounded him whenever he spoke. The world is covered in a thin, silvery white blanket, the result of a snowfall the night before. I basked in the unconventional beauty of New York in the winter time, every roof freshly clothed in white.

        My mind is lost in the twists and turns of endless streets when I heard a strangled voice call my name, "Annie!" I spin around and come face to face with the new photographer for the newspaper. His dark hair had been tormented into a tangled mess by the wind. "My deadline is tomorrow to submit these pictures and they aren't right," he said, handing me a few pictures.

        "I'm no photographer, Cooper, but these look great. What's the problem?" I ask him.

        "The story. I was there at the scene and I took these pictures but they don't match up with the story Mason wrote," he said, shoving the article in my direction.

        "Mason?" I asked him.

        "Some guy Kreysten just hired," Cooper said. "But that's beside the point because I have to turn these pictures in! Do you think I should talk to Mr. Kreysten?"

        "I say you leave it be. Just submit the pictures and if Kreysten has a problem with them, he'll let you know." I told him.

        "Okay," Cooper said, "Thanks for the help, Annie."

        "No problem. I'll see you tomorrow."

        He turned around and walked the way he had come, down the street towards the office. I sighed and continued my walk, wondering what on earth I would do without people always finding a question to ask.

        The next morning, the sun shone in the window. Like a bright reminder I needed to go down to the street and face another day of editing stories I hadn't written. The world seemed a blur to my sleep fogged eyes, the colors brighter but the outlines less distinct. Wisps of wind tugged at my scarf as I walked the narrow roads. When I reached the building at last, my muscles were tight. My legs were screaming having slept on them tucked to my chest, as if I thought they were the only thing I had left.

        "Miss Morter," Mr. Kreysten called from his office. "You're late."

        "Sorry sir," I said. "I missed my alarm." Which was partially the truth. Though, I don't have an alarm. I continued down the hallway to the room set aside for editing staff. The minute I walked in the door, I am greeted by my best friend and fellow editor, Scarlett Ryer.

        "Hey Annie," Scarlett said, looking up from her work just long enough to acknowledge my presence in the office.

        "Hi Scarlett," I said back to her, sitting down and picking up my work from the day before. I am deep in editing one of the newest stories when Cooper appears in the doorway.

        "I just wanted to tell you I took your advice and submitted the pictures," he said. "Kreysten hasn't said a word about it."

        "That's good news, right?" Scarlett said.

        "Maybe. I just hope these stories start coming in accurate," he said. "Anyway, I have to run. Something's going down on fourth street and I'm already backed up."

        "Bye Cooper," I called to him as he jetted down the hallway, I doubt he heard me though.

        "That kid has got too much on his plate," Scarlett said, "He can't be older than seventeen. He shouldn't have to worry about such a demanding job."

        "They say responsibility builds character." I said, not really paying attention.

        Scarlett had to stifle a laugh at that. I averted my eyes from her and back at the screen in front of me. There were so many errors in the text, every word must of had a red line under it. It looked like a ten year old had written it. I sighed and went to work on my seemingly never ending job. Editing, reediting, editing some more, only to submit it to Mr. Kreysten and watch him give someone else all the credit for it.

        The rest of the editing committee and I are kind of like the people who paint the props for plays. We do all the hard work and the cast just has to memorize some lines. Then we sit back and watch them get all the congratulations. The audience leaves thinking, "Oh that lead character was so great!" I bet not one of them sits back when they get home and wonders who made those sets. Not a single one.