Short Stories and Freewriting


There’s an old expression that says “silence is the loudest sound of all”. I’d have to agree with that sentiment. Have you ever had someone completely vanish without a trace? It’s the scariest feeling in the world. The thought of knowing you’ve done something wrong and they don’t have the gall to face you terrifies me. Does it say more about them or me? I’m willing to work things out but sometimes it just doesn’t seem to be that simple. Oh well I say. Maybe it wasn’t worth the effort anyway, right? Who am I kidding, being ghosted is the worst. Why is it phrased that way I wonder? Is it because of how transparent ghosts naturally are? We crave transparency yet we are terrified of it. We want to see someone at their most vulnerable, at their most genuine. We want to see through someone so they have nothing to hide, to know that we can trust them at any given moment with our emotional well-being. We want to see them for who they are. But like an actual ghost they can vanish at a moments notice. They have no reason to be in a situation that makes them feel uncomfortable or vulnerable. Can I blame them? I doubt many people relish in being vulnerable much less communicating those thoughts out to another person out loud. The thing that really drives me over the edge is the silence of it all. It can send someone to the brinks of madness and despair and make you question your self-integrity completely. The ego tends to assume that it is the cause for everything wrong and why not? It’s a reasonable assumption to believe that you did something wrong first rather than jumping the gun and blaming someone else. That’s what I’ve been taught to believe at least. These days I’m starting to question if I’ve really learned anything at all really? Are our establishments here to imbue knowledge onto the common man? Are they here to gatekeep knowledge from those who can’t afford it? It seems that way to me. I was fortunate enough to have the ability to not have to pay for knowledge, that said what if it’s all a ruse? What if they aren’t teaching us the right things? What if they’re just teaching us how to be obedient? I’m convinced that the complacency I despise is a product of the institutions that we’ve been forced into. We’ve been roped into the idea that knowledge is power with a system that actively shuns us for speaking our minds. We simply aren’t allowed to say what we really want to in this system that emphasizes red tape and actively harms our creative endeavors. We go our entire lives believing that if we get that piece of paper from this establishment that feeds on our time, effort and resources that we will be happy, whole and complete. Well you know what I think? It’s all a damn lie, always has been, always will be. Do I have any basis to back this up? You mean aside from the fact that I’ve been glued to this chair for what feels like an eternity? That should be all the evidence I need. I’m clearly qualified as dictated by the “establishment” but the world seems to be against me for whatever arbitrary reason that it wants us to believe. The world is alive and it is actively against me. “Santi! What are you babbling about this time? You doze off in class way to much man.” “Oh yeah, sorry about that. Depression just kicks in sometimes haha.” I put my head on my desk and fell asleep to the whispers and memories of my former classmates after finally typing my thoughts on the blank canvas in front of me.



Desperation seeking. Thirsty for approval. Starved for affection. It’s so intangibly tangible if that makes any sense. I can feel that pit in my stomach acting up again. It cries and screams incessantly. Why can’t I be happy it asks me? It doesn’t matter how much effort and time I give to someone I thought I cared about, they simply don’t care enough back. Was I a fool blinded by this abstract notion of love? Was it simply a fairy tale romance that I kept building up in my head? Was I not genuine? I’ve tried so hard to get in touch with myself and I keep thinking I’m improving for the better, but it just feels wrong. I change myself for approval. I’m so desperate for approval because of how much it drives my well-being. Have you ever thought about how your entire life depends on somebody else liking you? Romance is dependent on somebody else caring, somebody else telling you that you matter. The only difference between romance and obsession is that one of those involves both sides caring for one another. One consumes your entire well being and poisons your mind. Is it really poison though? I view it as a desperate cry for attention, a cry for love, a cry that quietly asks you to care. Please care for me as I care for you. I’ve given so much and just want even the tiniest most insignificantly significant ounce of affection to be given back. I love you so much with every ounce of my being and I just want to hold you in my arms and tell you that you matter so much to me. I want you to not be so hard on yourself and wish you nothing but the best. I want to tell you that you deserve all the wonderful things in life and that you are cherished and adored by someone. I want to tell you that you’re energy is best spent on people who care about you. I want to tell you that you matter, and I want you to tell me the same. I want you to tell me that you love me… but you won’t, and I know you won’t because life isn’t simple, and neither is this relationship. It hurts me. It hurts me to think about it, about us, about all the times you’ve opened up and poured your heart and soul to some stranger you’ve never met. What hurts the most is that I feel like you disappear without a trace, only to spend time with someone else. The last thing I want to be is needy, but I care about us, about you. I miss talking to you. It was one of the most simple joys in the world. It gave me purpose and a reason to get out of bed in the mornings. I know I’m not perfect and I’m sorry for making it awkward by telling you I love you so much. You have every reason to think I’m strange, and you have every right to not want to talk to me, and I’m really sorry that this message has been going on so long but I just wanted to wish you sweet dreams. I miss you and we should hang out sometime.

The Sun

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t worried. Worried about that fair maiden I care so deeply about across the shoreline where she once grew up. She’s my age now, mid-twenties like myself. When she told me about how the storm would be the end of the place where she used to live I just couldn’t control myself. I’d never been there personally, only know of it from her really. It was a nice community where everyone managed to get along despite the economy. But now… well the storm seems to have other things in mind for that place. I can’ shake my mind from the fact that so many people will have lost what once precious to them. Material goods are one thing but losing a home? That’s something nobody should have to experience. I’ve lost my home due to finances that were out of my control, but they were in someone else’s. With a storm though? Nobody has any influence and that’s what terrifies me the most. Sure you can take precautions but that’s about as much agency as you have to protect your humble abode. Shutters maybe? A storm basement for personal safety? Evacuating might be the smartest option of the bunch but to me, none of them fix the actual issue. There’s something to be said about the genuine feeling of helplessness that arises from being unable to do anything to protect that which you care about. I’ve been there. I’ve seen bad weather personified from bad bosses that continue to oppress those I love. I’ve seen human tornadoes and establishments that were simply created with a desire to do as they please. Perhaps it’s the act of indifference that I find the most unsettling. Maybe it’s the fact that there are people out there that are like the weather, cold, callous, and indifferent to anyone’s needs but their own. How did they become this way? Was it just that they simply came into existence as some sort of being deigned to do as they please? Or were they perhaps bountiful sunlight at some point and one storm too many permanently ceased their ability to radiate and become a storm themselves? There’s days where I can acutely feel my light fading and it hurts. There are people in my life who firmly believe in me as the heliocentric model for emotional stability in their lives and truth be told, I’m scared if they’ll be alright if my light fades out of existence due to circumstances beyond my control. I want to cleanse the dark storm over the horizon and bring peace. I don’t want to fade into nothingness because of pain and suffering, I want to be the Sun, their Sun.


Tyranny, a word defined by its ability to inflict oppression among many. One wouldn’t normally associate such a word with something like the weather but I’m one of those rare individuals that do. To me, inclement weather is the most terrifying thing in the universe to me. Sure I may be horrified at the thought of rejection, the pain that comes with it and everything awful surrounding it, but have you ever felt the ground just cave in beneath you? Have you ever tangibly felt in your mind the agony that and torture that comes with losing your grip? Imagine the same ground turning into violent, piercing stalagmites that tear apart the very tendons that uphold the bounds of your body. Imagine those same stalagmites destroying every. Single. Inch. Of everything that you once upheld both ethically and emotionally? That’s what an earthquake does. At least that’s my limited perception of it at least. If our root chakra is any indication of how much I genuinely care about stability, then an earthquake is more than simply extreme weather. It’s an extreme shift in perspective, and as a rational and level-headed human being, I can say with confidence that this sort of extremism makes the hairs on the back of my neck quiver with uncertainty. I crave stability more than anything else in my life. Growing up and swapping homes so often has left me with a strong desire to create my own family and stable home that I never felt was there. And that’s not to say I wasn’t grateful, heavens no. They cared, god knows they cared. I just never felt grounded would be the right expression. The cracks had their awful way of showing when things seemed to get too rough. Verbal battles were akin to typhoons being bellowed from the deepest recesses of the lungs. Those same lungs that give life and that inhale precious oxygen can rupture and puncture at the slightest bit of pressure being put on them. What once was an organ that flowed peacefully and exuberantly can collapse with utmost certainty when push comes to shove. Typhoons Turn to Tornadoes and Tornadoes To Tyranny.

Art and Consumers

It’s happening again. That feeling when your mind becomes a complete maelstrom of thoughts and every sort of anxiety comes creeping up on you. It hurts you know? How the human mind can go from being your best friend to your worst enemy in the blink of an eye. One moment I’m laughing up a storm at the absurdity that is my daily life and the next I’m contemplating where my next meal will come from. Am I to blame for this negativity? Surely I must be, after all, we are in charge of our own destiny as the world wants us to believe. The notion that hard work inevitably pays off is a fallacy that we all buy into, and why not? It’s exactly the sort of idealism we need, no, crave to become whole and fulfilled. Our lives are so mundane and insignificant that we desperately seek meaning in things that are simply art for art’s sake. Sometimes it’s not enough for something to simply be aesthetically pleasing, no it NEEDS to provide MEANING. Why is that? Is there some sort of void in our lives that only art can fix? Is there some problem that can only be solved by trying to project ourself into someone else’s work? Is it a cry for help, or simply an egotistical way of thinking that has poisoned our brain? I’d argue it’s a little bit of side A and side B. Try as we might it can be impossible to relate to someone specifically for one reason alone, we can’t hear their thoughts. Why is this a problem you might ask? Well simply put because language is an approximate. You can only ever say an approximation of what you truly want to tell someone. Part of it is inherently an issue with language itself, the other half being that as creatures trained by society we aren’t allowed to. The status quo and shame culture both play a part in that. Rejection, betrayal and all the other wonderful things that come with being genuine and honest are all very real fears for many people, myself included. For most people, they resort to using art as a means of expressing themselves and I feel that is the most genuine way of doing it. Art is a reflection of the artist’s manner of expressing themselves into the world. Let me emphasize the notion of “self” as well. This is the artists chance to tell the world how they really feel, whether it be happy, sad, angry or some combination of a myriad of emotions. First and foremost the artist is the one who is putting their heart and brain on paper or canvas or whatever have you. For them it can be therapy, for others, it can be a way of projecting themselves into someone elses work. To me I find the latter selfish. Why you may ask? Well think about it in the most simple terms, Artists are both creators and expressors of the summation of their lives. They are the ones who have to deal with the consequences and the judgment from the rest of the world. They are the ones who risk their entire well being, physically and emotionally just to make ends meet in a world full of constant competition. They are the ones who willingly choose to suffer and be poor in an effort to try and make themselves feel better, with hopes of some other human being giving a damn about their work so that they can have a roof above their heads and food in their bellies. They are the ones who realize that their very existence and livelihood depends on others, and they are the ones who are scared to death at the notion of knowing that they could die alone and unloved.

Consumers, on the other hand, disgust me if only for one reason alone, they only take rather than giving back that same creative energy into the world. Consumers are the ones who have excess and don’t know when to quit. They keep feeding and leeching off of the creators who pour their heart and soul into their work. Consumers and passersby aren’t all that different. They find one thing that looks interesting, mindlessly eat it or glance at it and then move onto the next. They give effort to those who are unworthy and ill-fitting of material wealth and it sickens me. I’m no paragon of good will, far from it but I’m someone who has had it all and then lost it. I’ve lost it for so many years now and can’t imagine going back to it. It didn’t make me happy. Well, it did at some point but after a while, it stopped. I’d be lying if I said material goods don’t make me happy but am I really to blame when our culture is constantly shouting that at us? Starving artists are real, and whether they are starving because their work isn’t deemed worthy in the public eye or simply because those who don’t deserve it are more recognized is beyond me. Let me make this clear, I am NOT a misanthrope by nature, far from it. I firmly believe in all the great things humanity is capable of in all of it’s forms. It just baffles me how disgusting things can be when it comes to those who are in need aren’t receiving the help that they deserve, while someone who is much better off is laughing about it in their fancy house.

If there’s anything to be said from all my rambling it’s that there is one conclusion I have reached. I’ve come to terms that I am suffering both physically and mentally both as a person and as an artist. To some degree, I am okay with that. I chose this path willingly, hell I even devoted 4 years explicitly for it. 4 arduous years with nothing to show for it but a piece of paper that says “ Congratulations for wasting your life for extrinsic rewards. Now rot at home because we didn’t prepare you for the real world”. I am okay with it for one reason alone because if my suffering can provide entertainment and can make a positive difference for at least one human being then it was all worth it.

The One Constant

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1:35 AM


Have you ever felt alone? Like really truly alone? I’m talking about the kind of isolation that every single ounce of your body feels. You see when my heart expands and contracts, it physically and emotionally hurts me. It tells me “stop” even when my mind is fighting against me. It knows I’m struggling but it doesn’t stop beating. When I try to talk to it, all of my words spew out as a poisonous gas, further choking me. I try to put on that happy facade but I can’t communicate it effectively which leads me to believe there’s something inherently wrong with ME as a person. I can scream and shout all within my mind but I can’t feel any reprieve because if I even so much as  whisper, I know I will be executed by the vile creature outside my box. It kills me, every single day to be stuck in this situation. No hope of being loved, no hope of being recognized, no hope of sustaining myself, only a void within my own mind. And what a void it is. I try to think of positive things but they always have some manner of turning into something dark to hurt me. I’ve come to terms that maybe some people are simply destined to be unhappy and miserable all by themselves without ever having learned of what passion truly means. This isn’t simply limited by passion between people. I mean the kind of passion that one feels when truly expressing themselves within their work. The kind of passion that says “I will write, or film or create whatever I want without a care in the world” even if it stirs opinions for being controversial. The kind of passion that allows the self to not have to worry about worldly desires because the passion alone is enough to keep them alive. The kind of passion that inspires someone to wake up every morning with a smile on their face to better themselves. For me, this does happen, but not as much as I want, no, NEED it to happen. I need to force passion into my life and I know better than anyone that nothing good can come out of something being forced. If I need something as much as this shouldn’t it come naturally? Is there not some sort of elixir or panacea to be found to cure my ailment? Well there is but I think it’s a hoax. The kind of elixir that the public wants you to believe is real. Well, I say they’re all wrong, that elixir doesn’t cure the root of the disease, only the symptoms. If the host is still corrupted then removing the strains of the virus won’t solve anything. Cough It’s getting harder and harder to breathe these days with all the chronic pain in my body. My foot which causes me agony every night, my spine which doesn’t curve the way most people do, and my scar which reminds me that even the most innocent of people can still very much hurt you. I hate it all. Why is it so much to have some consistency and stability in this world? Why can’t I be recognized? Why has the one constant in my life always been… pain?


Venice was always a giving woman, in many ways she was similar to her mother, foolish and altruistic to her own detriment. Her mother Chesil was never married, far from it. She dreamed of it but she knew a woman of her mixed Latin and Eastern descent didn’t stand much of a chance in the harsh marriage market. Whiteness and purity went hand in hand and she just wasn’t a part of that stigma. The bustling metropolis of Burgenshire didn’t do much help her either. Regardless of how one puts it, she was an outsider in her community. That didn’t stop her from fantasizing about a happy marriage though. She had a brief relationship with a certain tall dark and handsome man with hopes of starting her interpretation of a “happy nuclear family”, but as we all know, not all dreams are achievable and for Chesil, it was a devastating outcome. Her anonymous lover left her in the middle of the night after their brief escapade, with the parting gift of Chesil’s eventual daughter to be destined to grow within her. Needless to say that Chesil was heartbroken. She had to commit to being a parent; she made a vow to commit to parenthood regardless of the grim situation. Chesil knew that no man would take her if they found out she had a child on the way, that’s just how things seemed to work, irrationally and unjustly. She was left to fend for this eventual child on her own.

Venice grew up in what one would consider the world’s least efficient efficiency apartment, an environment she would grow to detest. Her mother did her best to care for her while working her job as a part time seamstress. Life was claustrophobic and cramped for so long and it only grew worse as she transitioned from child to adulthood. By the time she was a teenager, Venice spent almost the entirety of her time taking care of her mother. Late one night, toward the beginning of Venice’s freshman year of high-school, Chesil was walking home from work when she was interrupted by a group of young men. It was hard to argue that they looked like delinquents; they fit the stereotypical mold of them too. Chesil labeled them as tattoo laden, piercing ridden, and good for nothings. She didn’t say this until they were demanding tribute from her. Chesil’s pride however dictated not to give them a damn cent. It was then that she tossed them the former insult and proclaimed “You’ll have to take my money from my cold dead hands before I even think about giving you little bastards a damn cent!” Chesil knew Venice was depending on the little bit that she made to keep both of them alive and living until the day came when she wasn’t willing and able. That day happened to come on that fateful night. Chesil did her best to defend herself from the hoodlums but she was just one middle-aged woman against several young men. They had no initial interest of taking advantage of her but those kids were desperate for money. Desperate enough to break Chesil’s legs to make sure she would never be able to run away from them if they ever came back.

It was then that Venice knew that her obligation to her mother came before anything else. Venice may not have had the most luxurious life but she had the comfort of her mother every step along the way. With Chesil’s blessing, Venice dropped out of school to focus on taking care of her mother full time. Venice spent the next several years of her life diligently taking care of her mother until the year came that Venice would have graduated from high school. That was the year that the disability checks stopped coming and when the shoddy job that Venice had been doing to keep both of them alive had just not been cutting it. Being a cashier in a gas station just didn’t pay enough to support a grown woman and an 18 year old. She tried explaining to Chesil that there simply weren’t many opportunities in this world for a woman without education. Chesil was convinced, but Venice wasn’t. Venice believed she was worth more but she was lost as to how she would convince someone else of that reasoning.

Venice’s work was mainly uneventful. It’s hard to say that an 18 year old woman would enjoy working at some gas station near the outskirts of the city, but she made it work. She would get the occasional old fogey come in and ask her to help with the gas because they had arthritis or some other excuse. She was convinced they were just trying to objectify her or give her with dirty looks. Venice may not have been the ideal marriage market material given her tan complexion, but that’s what made her unique. She was deemed as exotic to others, which only added to her natural beauty. She still felt like an outcast, but she didn’t have the same issues of self-confidence that her Anglo-Saxon coworkers did. She barely wore makeup to work but that’s the thing, she didn’t need it. She was incredibly charismatic and charming to a fault. Venice never hesitated to go out of her way for others, and even though everything she did was rationalized by doing it for her family, she still felt proud about it. There was something noble about sacrifice to her. There was something satisfying about ignoring the self to give others a sense of genuine happiness. For Venice it wasn’t a job, it was an exercise in empathy.

The most notable event to happen to Venice was her meeting of a certain businessman by the name of Marshall Evans. When she saw him approach her little roadside gas station, she was confused as to why someone of his caliber would bother coming in to a place like this. Marshall approached with a serious demeanor, for someone in a suit, she expected him to have a less than ragged look on his face. Venice imagined all businessmen as a sort of elite who had nothing better to do than burn money while drinking champagne, at least that’s what she’d read in books. He had left a container on the counter expecting her to fill it but he had made a full 180 when he took a look at Venice. Marshall had just assumed that the cashier would have been some low-class old hag managing the joint until he had noticed Venice’s striking features. “What brings you to work at a place like this Miss?” “Venice, Sir.” His once serious demeanor melted into what could only be described as a teenager noticing a beautiful woman for the first time. Maybe it was the way he had heard it or possibly a combination of how attractive he perceived Venice, but simply hearing her utter those two simple words, two words that were only her name and her addressing him, had made him feel so much emotion and what could only be described as a strange form of ecstasy. Marshall had been a businessman at heart, he attempted to be Casanova in his spare time but none of his personal relationships ever evolved much further than a client and employer relationship. He was objective to a fault but also a hopeless romantic if that were even possible, and to him it was. Marshall was an employer for a modeling agency so it had always been his job to seek out the best of the best, but to him he’d always been into the idea of perfection and allowing his clients to reach their true potential. However, his idealism had always gotten the better of him and the bulk of his clients had quit on him because his expectations were astronomical. Marshall was convinced that they just didn’t care enough about reaching their “potential” and they were just in it for the glitz and glamour. Marshall had been looking for a true client, one that would not only be perfect in the business world, but also the perfect woman for him as a person. Suffice it to say, he was smitten. Venice on the other hand wanted to break out into a smile by how ridiculous his doe-eyed expression had looked. She hadn’t had many encounters with the upper class and was hoping that this mystery man would get her out of her life of despair and give her the chance she thought she deserved. “Venice, I may not know you, I may not know where you’ve been or the struggles you’ve been through, but I can say that within the deepest ounces of my core that you are capable of something much better than the job that you’re doing right now. I was once in the position you were in, and all I needed was one human being to come along, one person who thought I was good, someone I felt I could depend on for the rest of my life to give me that chance. Here I am now, offering you that chance.” Marshall unhesitatingly offered her a personal business card for “Marshall’s Modeling Agency”. In the back part of Venice’s mind she thought this was a lie, and truth be told she should have believed this in the end. She was confused as to how to go about accepting this offer but she graciously took the card anyway and said, “I’ll call you when my shift ends and I give my boss my two-weeks’ notice”.

Venice talked over her decision with Chesil. Chesil was scared, scared because she knew all the terrible things men were capable of. Scared of how men can rob you of your life. How men can create and not take responsibility for the products they create, those same products that need love and attention to flourish and be successful. Venice was afraid too. She was afraid of putting herself in her mother’s shoe’s, alone, no husband to take care of her, relying upon your only immediate family member for so much, but nothing scared her more than the isolation. Venice didn’t have many friends, being alone with her mother most the time. She worked so much she didn’t have time for a social life either. She wanted to cry because she wished she had someone else in the world to help take care of her and her mother, someone to cradle her and tell her everything was going to be alright even when they knew it wouldn’t. She wanted the security of having a comfortable life without feeling like her home was a prison cell, that was clearly meant for solitary confinement. She wanted to wear clothing that she wouldn’t feel ashamed of telling people that she got it from a 99 cent store that smelled like a murder scene. Venice wanted to have a child that would be born into the world with a happy upbringing, a world where her child wouldn’t be restricted to living for someone else out of obligation. Venice didn’t want to wind up like her mother with nobody to defend her when she really needed it. It was strange. Venice knew that on the surface, Marshall was simply offering a job, but she couldn’t ignore how obsessed with her he looked at the time. He was showing it with his body language, and his romantic word choice was there too. She knew it was more than a job, it was going to be a commitment, both the job and the relationship she would need to develop with Marshall in order to sustain this transaction. She would only have one condition, Marshall would have to support her mother as well as her. Chesil wanted to support Venice but all she could say was “I love you Venice, and I hope that in the end you do what’s best for yourself”.

Life felt like it was passing Venice by in what felt like an instant. She got the modeling job without any hesitation from Marshall and she couldn’t help but laugh at how surreal this whole situation felt. Going from cashier to full time model wasn’t something that most women could say they’ve done, much less a woman who hadn’t even finished high-school. It was strange at first. She was confused when she heard the rumors that Marshall would overwork his clients with his ridiculous demands but Venice never felt like anything was out of the ordinary. Perhaps she had come to expect life to be difficult but for what it was worth, that attitude certainly helped her maintain the job. Venice was quite complacent being told what to do in a work setting. Perhaps she gained some comfort knowing that this was all being done to protect someone that she cared about, or perhaps it was because this was the opportunity that she needed to actually be somebody; to have a sort of identity in this world, where it mattered so much.

Despite the fact that Marshall was in charge of the company, one thing that made him unique was the fact that he didn’t delegate others to training his clients. In fact, he spent the most time out of any of his employees doing actual training, at least early on in his clients’ career. He would usually give his clients an image to work with and tell them to try and emulate it but with their own twist. Needless to say, his panache was a bit much for the average model to handle, but he had faith in Venice. A kind of faith that can only be felt when someone has identified someone else as being genuinely invested in their future. Marshall’s ultimate downfall was that he tried to seek out romantic relationships with his clients, and that didn’t stop him from taking a liking to Venice. She wasn’t necessarily charmed by his demeanor, in fact she was almost intimidated because she knew if she messed up it would cost her the world. She was also grateful that he gave her a chance when so few people would even bother with a woman in her circumstances. Venice played along with Marshall’s advances but she was still slightly uncomfortable by the situation. Marshall even jokingly mentioned how much easier both of their lives would be if they were married at times. Venice would usually stay quiet whenever he said this.

Marshall had called Venice to his office after training on one afternoon. He usually had positive reinforcement for her but this session felt off. Marshall was a bit more uptight than usual and his youthful, romantic self seemed to have been absent that day. When Venice made it to his office, her heart had been beating incredibly quickly out of nervousness. Thoughts swirled in her mind with her questioning whether or not she was performing up to par anymore, or whether that new younger model had taken his fancy. Venice had only been working with Marshall for a year but it was obvious that he slowly felt like something had been getting to him after the earlier training sessions. When she approached his desk, he asked her how she had enjoyed working with him. “If I’m quite honest, it’s been a joy to work with someone who’s had so much confidence in me as a Model”. “And I’m glad you’ve been so receptive toward my assistance”. The room fell silent and Marshall had given Venice a dour expression. “Venice you’ve been working here a year now and there’s been a lot of press asking about your story. This modeling agency has had a rather sketchy history and we’ve been concerned of losing funding from our investors if any more ugly rumors get out. Now I trust you and know what you’ve been through, but imagine the public’s reaction when they find out one of our top models has been living in a shoddy apartment and hasn’t even been to a proper school or finished it for that matter. Now I’m not trying to judge you but the world is a harsh place Venice you’ve seen that, hell you’ve lived it. The press will do anything to sink my company after all the mistakes I’ve made in the past, but I want to fix that. I simply can’t have any rumors running around otherwise my life and everyone around me will fall apart. Negative rumors have also been going around with me too. Imagine a twenty seven year old man, head of a company of models nonetheless, who isn’t married. I’m destined to be the laughing stock of the business world! I simply can’t have that! I’ve worked too hard to get to where I am and I won’t throw that away!” Marshall had a glimmer of a tear for around his now puffy red eyes. Venice wanted to tell him that it would be alright, even though she knew it wasn’t, but she just stayed silent. “Venice, there’s something we can do that can fix all of this. It’s the elephant in the room, the M word. I know what you’re thinking, how in God’s name is this going to solve our problems? Well for one, think of it as having a clean slate for your history, with a marriage ceremony the press will focus on that instead of where you came from and that way we’ll both be out of hot water. You can keep your job, I can still run the company and neither of us will be humiliated. But if you refuse, then I’m going to have to cut our losses early and drop you from the company, and we both know that’s not what either of us want now is it, cupcake?” Saying Venice felt betrayed at this point would be an insult. Had Marshall been planning this all along? To ask out some young woman in need and then put the gun to her head to make his ego satisfied? Had he known how terrified Venice would be without this job? Who would hire her anywhere else after hearing she was fired from one of the biggest companies into town? He really was coercing her into this, but even she knew that she needed this job if she were to have a future. What hurt the most was that she didn’t feel this was a decision at all, her future was being chosen for her. Despite working with him for a year, she hadn’t really known all that much about him aside from what she had heard from others and his initial romantic nature. At the same time, she was also weirdly happy, happy that she’ll have someone to depend on financially, someone to come home to and hug when she felt lost, happy that she will be safe. Venice was tongue tied when this was proposed to her, but she eventually did agree to these terms out of fear that saying no would have been the less appealing option.

For all of her fears and doubts Venice was pleasantly surprised with how the wedding ceremony turned out. Tons of people showed up from the Company as well as Chesil. Venice had mentioned before to her mother about her uncertainties, but Chesil knew she was doing the best she could. Venice’s wedding served as a stark contrast for her eventual home-life. Sure, their home was extravagant aesthetically, but felt a bit hollow. Venice hated her efficiency, but it had touches of human life to it; the candles dripping wax on the windowsill because the lighting was busted, the constantly dripping sink with “the pipes that cost too damn much to repair” as Chesil would say. That wasn’t even including the squeaky doorknob that would alert Chesil when her daughter would return. It was a flawed home but it was reflective of their humanness. This new home was immaculate to the point where if one thing were misplaced, the house would fall apart. If anything, it reminded Venice a bit too much of her job, always focused on the surface but it never went skin deep. Marshall tried to reassure her that it was better for her and even offered the small guest house for her mother. This new house was a far cry from the cramped space of what felt like the prison cell of her efficiency, but Venice was glad it had a bit more room to walk around in, despite how excessively pristine it was.

Venice and Marshall had an awkward time adjusting to this new way of life. For Marshall, it was routine as he had been living here for as long as he had the company; this sprawling estate with its’ long halls and white floors. For Venice it was a new world entirely. Neither had been married previously as far as they knew, and they didn’t know much about each other really. Both of them would come home from work late into the night. Since Venice didn’t need training anymore, she would rarely see Marshall at work. Venice would get out early which would leave her with a lot of time to walk around the house and occasionally remember that her mother was living in the guest house. Venice didn’t notice too much about the house ,aside from a strange looking cellar that she found when patrolling the outskirts of the yard. It wouldn’t have really crossed her mind to go here normally, but she just wanted to explore where she would be living for God knew how long. The only notable thing she found in there was a fridge that happened to be unplugged. Venice had disregarded it and went back to checking out the rest of the house. Work had become so stressful for her that that was the only thing she could keep her mind on. She would find herself pacing back and forth hoping that Marshall would come home soon to comfort her restlessness. Her comfort would almost never be answered because she would always fall asleep before he would get back from work.

Marshall would usually spend a couple extra hours after work drinking with his friends but he would never tell that to Venice because that was his “personal life” and he didn’t want her to know about his habit. Marshall was usually quiet around Venice because he didn’t want to scare her off. He knew that this was a lot to adjust to for her, but at the same time he felt guilty because he didn’t want to let her go earlier. He wouldn’t be surprised if he thought she hated him, in fact he hated himself. He didn’t want to let go his prime example of a perfect woman, and he didn’t want to let his company that he spent so many years investing into, to go to waste. It was his child, at least to him. It was something that he put love into and felt like that love had been given back tenfold to the people who worked for him. Hell if it weren’t for his company, he wouldn’t have found his trophy wife Venice, and to him she was a trophy. She was his ideal of a perfect woman, beautiful, graceful, and worked as a good mantelpiece to his already established career. Marshall felt somewhat guilty of idealizing her, but she really was perfect to him. He did have some qualms. He didn’t get to spend as much time with her as he wanted, and he really was convinced that she hated him after the whole marriage or you’re out bit that he proposed before. Marshall was used to handling stress but nothing got to him more than finding out that his clients hated him all along. He wanted to be viewed as their savior, a man who gave them everything and expected everything in return. He wanted his kindness to be reciprocated and more often than not, it rarely was. Marshall enjoyed the occasional drink with his friends but it was always after he had lost a client, or whenever he felt that seething hate was when he would come home utterly wasted. He had come home to Venice on one such night demanding her company, when she had refused. He had left the room angry and dejected and eventually slept on the couch that night. Venice had eventually picked up on those habits of his but she would never call him out on it. Marshall had apologized almost immediately the next day and vowed to make up for it with a special occasion.

Marshall had gone through the “bit”, that stereotypical romantic act of getting chocolates for Venice as well as some of the finest roses he could find. Venice wasn’t exactly impressed but she was certainly happy that he went out of his way to do this. For her this wasn’t something that happened at all in her life but she was content with how it all worked out. Marshall had gone through all the tropes of apologizing while also trying to set the romantic mood, but what really won over Venice was the velvety smooth jazz that he had put on his antique record player. She had been so used to not having music in her life so she was moved when Marshall had played such wonderful music. Marshall didn’t think it would work out the way it did, but it had worked and next thing he knew they weren’t simply “listening” to music anymore.

Venice had felt like her heart had become a lump in her throat when she realized she was pregnant. She didn’t want to tell Marshall out of fear that she wouldn’t be their prized model anymore. She was also scared that he wouldn’t love her anymore after discovering this. What use would the head of a modeling agency have with a future blimp of a woman? She thought. Venice eventually came to the conclusion that she wouldn’t tell him until it was further noticeable.

He wanted to cry, both out of joy and sadness. He knew Venice would never be the same, but he would have a living breathing heir to his legacy. He knew that day that Venice would never model again and he would have her be a stay at home wife to nurture his future son. At least he assumed it would be a boy. Venice had gotten a sonogram but the doctor told her it was clearly a girl. She had no choice but to withhold that from him.

When Marshall received the sonogram report that it was a girl on the way, he had fallen into a slump. He had begun drinking again and it had begun to add up. What was once the clean-shaven spitting image look of a successful businessman had begun to look like a mountain man of a fat father instead. Marshall had taken his own personal two weeks off where he had finally delegated his Vice President to take care of the company while he took a stay-cation.

It wasn’t long before Marshall and Venice became quite sick of seeing each other lounging about the house. Venice was doing her best to not let stress get to her while dealing with Marshall’s complete indifference regarding her pregnancy. They would barely talk to one another and all Marshall would do is demand another drink for Venice to fetch. When Marshall mentioned that they were out of beer in the main fridge, he demanded she go fetch some from the cellar. She protested that he do it himself, but in a drunken stupor he threatened her. Venice slowly proceeded down the stairway to the cellar with minimal light emanating from it. She took her time and eventually flicked on the light switch and stared at the fridge. She couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by thoughts of regret as she kept wanting to refuse to sustain his bad forceful habits any longer. She knew this wasn’t productive for either of them, but she was scared of what he might do if he didn’t have his way. She stood there for a while still thinking about whether or not she wanted to continue with the deed until Marshall came trudging down the stairs with a furious look on his face. “You’re still here woman? Goddammit, what’s the hold up!?” “I’m sick of it Marshall.” she said “Excuse me?” he replied incredulously. She stood her ground, “You heard me. I’m sick of you wasting away your life with this. You obviously don’t care about yourself anymore but I need someone to help take care of the child.” He countered, “That’s your job woman!” “No its not, it’s our duty.” she answered. He replied, “You keep thinking that.” “What do you mean Marshall?! Don’t you care about your daughter?” she said frustrated . He replied,“It’s exactly that! This kid won’t be able to inherit the company! And why is that? It’s her gender Venice. It’s just not in her place to run a multimillion dollar business.” She incredulously asked, “Says who?! That stupid press you keep prattling on about?! Or that invisible society you keep thinking you have to appeal to? Why do you care about what some faceless people think about you?” He answered, “They’re not face- less Dear and they’re investors. Those faceless people are the same people who are helping keep my company alive, and you don’t seem to get that! It’s bad for both of us having a non-male heir to take over the business after I’m gone. If I lose the family name then how will the world remember my legacy?” Exasperated she said, “To hell with your legacy! I’m so sick of your idealized nonsense! There’s a child on the way and all you care about is looking good to these stupid investors you’re always talking about! If you were so concerned about your image, you wouldn’t have poisoned your body so much with this crap! I can barely recognize you from the charming man you presented yourself as when you first met me at that gas station.” He quickly answered back, “And I can’t recognize you either Venice! You used to be so complacent with everything I’ve said up until now and look at you, talking back to the man who gave you everything! I gave you a job. I gave you a home. I gave you a child, and you twisted and distorted EVERY LAST ONE! I should’ve known you weren’t any different from those other women! You couldn’t just be happy with what you were given! You could’ve just said thanks but you didn’t. I hate you so much you wretch!” “Go fuck yourself Marshall, I’m leaving.” She said. He yelled, “NO!” As Venice turned to walk up the stairs Marshall grabbed her by the arm and started twisting it so she couldn’t get away. He exerted so much force that he broke her arm and she screamed and fainted from the shock. Upon hearing the scream, Chesil emerged from the guest house and rolled toward the origin of the scream only to find the scene of her daughter lying on the floor with her arm twisted out of control.

Not long after that event, Venice had been hospitalized and she had issued a divorce from Marshall. With the money from the settlement she had found a new home for her and her mother and had birthed a healthy baby girl who she could raise away from the influence of Marshall and forge a new happy life.