Broken Submission

Three Punished Backsides

This place was a shithole. She'd gotten lucky; one of her apartment applications had been approved. But it was a seedy, one room dive that stank of cigarettes and cat urine. As she hauled her last box into the room, she sighed, then grimaced as she inhaled a lungful of that scent. Home sweet home.

She flung open the solitary window and turned the fan on, hoping to blow some of it out. Before unpacking her things, she would need to deep clean. Her mattress was perched on its side against the wall. She'd had to choose between that and her chair. Well, no time like the present. She dug out her cleaning supplies and got to work.

"You must have some sort of contact information." Derek stared at the man before him. He was filthy, a crumpled cigarette dangling out of his mouth, floral Hawaiian shirt dingy and wrinkled.

"Look, the girl moved out. Why would I still have her records?"

Derek felt his frustration levels rise to a solid 8 on a 10 point scale. "You have to keep records for years legally. Plus, the idea that you are the model of efficiency seems quite frankly ludicrous. So even if you are in the habit of discarding your old tenets files, I doubt you get around to it within a week."

The man squinted at him, seem unable to determine whether he was being insulted. But Derek was fed up.

"Do your damn job and get the files," he growled, slamming his fist on the desk.

The man jumped, the burning cigarette falling into the collar of his shirt. He jumped up, swearing and batting at his chest. He finally located the cigarette. Popping it back in his mouth, he glared at Derek but turned to the file cabinet.

"Name?"

"Amelia Scott." This would be the third time he'd given her name.

"Scott, Scott, Amelia Scott," the man muttered as he rummaged through the files. "Ah, yes."

He pulled out a Manila folder. "Now ah," he said with an oily smile, "we're not actually allowed to show these to anyone—"

Derek dropped a hundred dollar bill on the desk. "Give it here before I commit assault."

The man tossed him the folder and swept up the cash. Derek kicked the door open and stormed out of the building. Once inside his car, he looked through the file. Pages of contracts, signatures, claims of damages... he finally located a next of kin. He plugged the number into his phone. A woman's voice answered, high pitched and southern.

"Hello?"

"Hello? Mrs. Walker?" he asked.

"That'd be me. Who is this."

He took a deep breath. "My name is Derek Jensen. I know your daughter. She recently left town, and I can't seem to contact her. I'm a bit worried, and I wondered if you might be able to help me."

"That girl hasn't contacted me in almost a year. It's just the obligatory holidays that I hear from her. I have no idea where she might have run off to. It certainly wasn't home. And to think, after leaving that husband of hers in the dust, she's still playing the same games. Well I'm sorry, dear, if she ran off in the night. I know a broken-hearted lover's voice when I hear one."

Derek's hand tightened on the phone. "Husband?"

"Oh, she didn't tell you?" The woman's voice held a touch of sadistic pleasure behind its sweetness. "Yes, it's been over four years now since she ran off and left that poor man all alone."