All Life Demons
Chapter 1
Today is moving day. The living room of my apartment is scattered with cardboard boxes halfway up to my ceiling, each labeled according to what is in them. All this morning was spent organizing and finishing packing up everything, while waiting for the truck to pull up in the driveway. Normally, even on such a lovely Saturday spring morning as it is, I would just be waking up, but with a busy day like today, my beauty sleep will have to wait.
My name is Violet Cordell and I live in a small two-bedroom apartment in New York City. I’m twenty-five years old and work for small advertising company downtown. Currently single, my friends have always pushed me to put a personal ad in our local newspaper. I always found that to be a bit on the creepy side though. Though they say they are one or a certain number of things, who really knows what or who is going to show up? Having moved out of my parents’ house when I was 19, you could say I’m pretty independent. I’ve always had that sense about me, though. That, and I’ve always acted pretty mature for my age. That’s a rather funny fact, seeing as at five-feet-two-inches, I don’t look all that intimidating at first. But I don’t take any crap from anyone, so people learn sooner or later.
Taking a final sip from a glass previously filled with orange juice, I set it down on the dining room table with a tired sigh. The time on my watch reads 1:15pm. He should have been here by now, I grumble to myself. Laying the glass inside the dish pan in the sink, I shuffle back out of the kitchen and curl up on my favorite green armchair in the living room, with my feet propped up on the “Jeans and Jackets” box, with a book I’ve halfway finished already. I don’t look half as ready for this move as I feel. Butterflies dance and flutter in my stomach, hidden by navy blue sweatpants and a baggy black hoodie. At least I had the decency to comb and brush my hair this morning. Not that I’m trying to look good for him.
Just getting to the good part of my novel where the rich man’s daughter learns the true identity of her father’s killer all those years before, I am immediately torn away from the page by a disturbance outside. To my dismay, it is still not him, but the scene before my eyes still deserves a light chuckle. The birdhouse previously inhabited by a couple of robins, swinging precariously in the wind, has just been usurped by a pesky squirrel. Between both very vocal species, all that can be heard is a jumbled mess of chirps and squawks and squeaks. Teeth were bared and wings were flapping vigorously. After arguing back and forth for another five minutes, the robins finally give up and fly off to look for a home elsewhere. Now if only the real world could be that simple. You have a problem, and you choose to fix it by any means necessary, worrying not about any of the consequences.
The conflict of interests now over, I open my side window a little wider to let the refreshing breeze hit my face. The sweet perfume of an unknown flower hits my nostrils. The sky is the perfect shade of blue, dotted only with a few wispy clouds that pose no stormy threat. The perfect spring day.
Clank. Clank. Clank. Clank. Clank. Sputter. Sputter.
Spoke too soon. About time the asshole arrived, though. Two o’clock in the afternoon already; if he had kept me waiting another hour, these boxes would have been on the curb instead of in the back of his piece-o-shit truck.
My name is Violet Cordell and I live in a small two-bedroom apartment in New York City. I’m twenty-five years old and work for small advertising company downtown. Currently single, my friends have always pushed me to put a personal ad in our local newspaper. I always found that to be a bit on the creepy side though. Though they say they are one or a certain number of things, who really knows what or who is going to show up? Having moved out of my parents’ house when I was 19, you could say I’m pretty independent. I’ve always had that sense about me, though. That, and I’ve always acted pretty mature for my age. That’s a rather funny fact, seeing as at five-feet-two-inches, I don’t look all that intimidating at first. But I don’t take any crap from anyone, so people learn sooner or later.
Taking a final sip from a glass previously filled with orange juice, I set it down on the dining room table with a tired sigh. The time on my watch reads 1:15pm. He should have been here by now, I grumble to myself. Laying the glass inside the dish pan in the sink, I shuffle back out of the kitchen and curl up on my favorite green armchair in the living room, with my feet propped up on the “Jeans and Jackets” box, with a book I’ve halfway finished already. I don’t look half as ready for this move as I feel. Butterflies dance and flutter in my stomach, hidden by navy blue sweatpants and a baggy black hoodie. At least I had the decency to comb and brush my hair this morning. Not that I’m trying to look good for him.
Just getting to the good part of my novel where the rich man’s daughter learns the true identity of her father’s killer all those years before, I am immediately torn away from the page by a disturbance outside. To my dismay, it is still not him, but the scene before my eyes still deserves a light chuckle. The birdhouse previously inhabited by a couple of robins, swinging precariously in the wind, has just been usurped by a pesky squirrel. Between both very vocal species, all that can be heard is a jumbled mess of chirps and squawks and squeaks. Teeth were bared and wings were flapping vigorously. After arguing back and forth for another five minutes, the robins finally give up and fly off to look for a home elsewhere. Now if only the real world could be that simple. You have a problem, and you choose to fix it by any means necessary, worrying not about any of the consequences.
The conflict of interests now over, I open my side window a little wider to let the refreshing breeze hit my face. The sweet perfume of an unknown flower hits my nostrils. The sky is the perfect shade of blue, dotted only with a few wispy clouds that pose no stormy threat. The perfect spring day.
Clank. Clank. Clank. Clank. Clank. Sputter. Sputter.
Spoke too soon. About time the asshole arrived, though. Two o’clock in the afternoon already; if he had kept me waiting another hour, these boxes would have been on the curb instead of in the back of his piece-o-shit truck.