BLOOD ON THE LEAVES

FIFTY-THREE | RIGGED FROM THE BEGINNING

Preparing for a night out at The Bar Room, even for a casual one, requires some hardcore pampering due to the nature in which the clientele of the quiet speakeasy operates. Tucked away beneath The Beekman's nine-story Victorian era atrium, the Bar Room allows you to rub elbows with the serious-money crowd over canapes and cocktails.

This is why I'm getting my hair professionally blown out and done thanks to the on-demand app, Priv. Whenever a professional gets his hands on me, the results are unreal. My golden, over-bleached hair shines, my skin gleams and my cheeks glow healthily and my slinky Bec & Bridge dress hug my body in all the right places, accentuating my full lips, the curve of my back and my toned, graceful legs.

I'm scrolling through my email, sipping on a black coffee as the makeup artist dust specks of gold onto my cheeks. I managed to get a reply from the Clerk of the court, who quickly links me to the case I've requested last night. I hesitate as my finger hovers over the link, not sure if I am ready to open this emotional can of worms.

Get over it, a voice says in my head,. I steel my nerves as I inhale sharply and click on it. The years past have liquified the initial feelings of anger and hurt, causing the fiery hatred to simmer down into a cooler, colder detached frame. Especially with all the new information and speculation that surfaced, causing an uneasiness to bubble up in my stomach as I stare at the link.

Here goes nothing, I tell myself as I open the link. My eyes skip over the opening statements, flipping through pages of unimportant lawyer talk and go straight to the evidence presented and discoursed about in court. One of the most damning pieces of evidence, the one that made me so angry and hopped up on revenge, is the medical record found by the prosecutors showing how Orson's intoxication levels to be at a BAC level of 0.212%. That level of intoxication is enough to render a person unconscious so the fact that he got into the car with his whole entire squad of friends and convinced the limo driver to let him take the keys off him was negligent to the point of criminal. It was for that insane level of gross incompetence and callousness and the fact that he and his whole group of friends escaped the sentence is what boils my blood. But as I read over the medical record and pour over the details with a less emotional lens, something struck me as odd.

No police report was ever submitted as evidence.

It never occurred to me before as odd- mostly because I was too honed in on the medical record, the defences from Orson's lawyer claiming how his life "shouldn't be ruined because of a mistake", the court's ruling, the fact that Orson got away with it. But now it does. Especially with all the new information that surfaced- Orson's real parentage, the fact that Orson's supposed father, now half-brother, and his 'grandmother' most likely put out a hit on Orson's mother.

My mind is turning, tossing at the possibilities but I'm n0t sure. I need to be sure, I tell myself. The situation is so twisted now; the hatred in my mind is slipping, losing grip. The reality I've come to know and accept feels manufactured; like the game-controllers of this world have suddenly done a 180 and changed the rules. The games I thought I was good at playing turns out to be a completely different game this whole time. At first, I think my family, my life, the livelihood of my parents and brothers have been at the behest of Orson and their lack of care for those around them. Now, it feels there is something more sinister at play here- but instead of my family and I as the pawns, everyone- including Orson- are just objects moved across a chessboard with someone pulling the strings behind the scene.