I know there are a lot of mistakes, I wrote this back in late december, 2006... not too horribly long ago, but I\'ve learned more as time has gone by and a lot of the errors irk me. Like, why did I make those kind of mistakes without noticing? I figured I\'d leave them in, just incase you see better ways to edit them than I would. Please be honest with comments and suggestions, the good and bad. I really want to improve my writing. This is one segment, not quite a chapter, so it isn\'t terribly long, but I hope if anything, you enjoy reading it (can\'t make that guarantee, but I can hope.) "Specialist investigator" seems to go nowhere, so I know that needs to be changed... but I\'ll let the rest speak for itself...
You\'re Fired
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Blurry blue eyes blinked, taking several moments to adjust in the darkness. Hadn\'t he set the alarm for five? A pale hand reached out and swatted the bedside clock, taking a moment to register the fact that it was ten past noon. He\'d be late for work, again. There\'d be no next time though; he had a few too many warnings about commitment to his job.
Throwing aside the sweat-soaked sheets, the man yawned and stretched. He could already feel the midday heat, and judged by the beds condition that it was at least eighty degrees. A quick glance over to the window thermometer made him blanch, and he did a double take. Ninety? He was really beginning to miss winter in the country.
His hands reached for the shades, but never quite made it, as he instead meandered over to the dresser. He didn\'t live out in the middle of nowhere anymore, people tended to cast their curious gazes into other people\'s business, and windows. He\'d try getting dressed first, for once.
Pale stocky hands smoothed out the ruffles in his white dress shirt, and then picked out a pair of black slacks. He thought of picking out a tie, but changed his mind. Nobody noticed at the diner, and he wouldn\'t be working there for much longer.
It took him a few minutes to struggle with the shirt and pants, and he had to loosen his belt up several times. He still didn\'t believe the scale. Another twenty pounds in just a week? Either all that hard work at the gym was finally adding up to some solid muscle, or those donuts were finally settling around his waist. That or he was pregnant.
Chuckling at his own dry humor, he stopped in front of the mirror, and poked at his sagging chin. It wasn\'t just the donuts. He had bags beneath his eyes and a permanent wrinkle across his forehead. It all reminded him of his uncle; just weeks before he threw himself off a New York City rooftop. Stress did that to people, made them do some crazy things. Like get married, have several kids, and end up living in a two-room apartment in the slums of New Jersey. Of course, then it made the wife leave you, the kids get taken away by who knows who, and rent pass under paid for several weeks.
Then you had a permanent wrinkle across your forehead, bags underneath your eyes, and an alarm clock that wakes you up six or seven hours late and always on a busy work day.
He left the shades closed as he left his room, and sauntered into the bathroom.
He sorted out his razor from his toothbrush and tried to wash dried flakes of toothpaste from both, but finally ended up throwing away the razor and sticking the toothbrush in his mouth. He didn\'t want to shave anyways, the stubble on his chin and across his lip seemed fitting. Charles the fourth. Once a successful business man, now just a lowlife bum. Again he chuckled at his own dry humor, but then paused, turning to stare hard at the shower. Did the curtain just move?
Spitting out the toothbrush, Charles leapt at the curtain, slugging at it with a stocky fist.
Only there was nothing behind it, and he fell headfirst into the shower, fist crashing against the wall with a rattling thump.
Pulling the torn shower curtain from around his neck, Charles blinked, and barked, blushing. "You planned that, didn\'t you?" Not even sure what he was yelling at, he pulled himself to his feet, only to trip, tangled up in the curtain.
He didn\'t know what hurt more, slamming his chin down on the floor and biting his tongue, or his heavy body crashing down and his already injured hand trying to stop it. His knuckles cracked and he glanced down, watching blood trickle down across the back of his hand.
So much for punching shower curtains.
Cursing again, he rolled over, and then screamed.
Standing above him was a black clad man, cold staring eyes locked on his red face. "Playing with cockroaches, or do you always take showers with your clothes on and the water off?"
Charles screamed again, and moved to get up, but the man stomped on his bloodied hand, and quickly brought a hand down to pinch his throat.
"I wouldn\'t move Charles. You seem to be out of pain killers."
Charles looked to the cabinet, to see that it had been thrown open, likely while he was attacking his shower curtain.
"You bastard!" then with more force, "let me up!" He couldn\'t move, could barely speak, and could only wail as the man pinched harder and smiled. He wouldn\'t be getting up anytime soon.
The man shook his head slowly, and pulled out his wallet with his free hand, flipping it open with a flick of his wrist. "I make the demands Charles, not you. After all, that\'s what I was hired for."
Charles blinked and tried to make out the card the man was showing him, but could only read a few words. "Demitri, specialist investigator..."
The man smiled again, the slight twist of his thin lips doing nothing to soothe Charles or give a friendly look. Then the wallet closed again, and disappeared into his pocket, freeing his hand again.
Charles didn\'t like that one bit. One hand alone had him pinned to the floor, struggling to breath. When Charles tore his gaze from the man\'s pocket though, he found something more alarming than a free hand. He found that it had picked out something from a different pocket. A sleek black gun, cold barrel pressed to Charles\' temple.
"Please!" Charles pulled out his own wallet and tore it open, showing a gummy wad of cash within. It was the money for his monthly rent. "It\'s all I have, take it!"
The man was shaking his head again before he could even finish though, and pulled Charles to his feet, swatting aside the wallet. "I have no use for your money Charles."
Dropping to his knees, Charles looked up at the man, confused. "How do you know my name? What do you want?" Blinking through his tears, his mind raced. Had his wife sent him? To get revenge? Or had she finally told her new boyfriend about the beatings...
The man, Demitri as the card had named him, shrugged, and then pulled back the trigger, just slightly. "None of that matters. You can seek your answers in the after life."
Charles cowered, groveling at the man\'s feet. "I have children!"
"And since when were they my problem?" It was a lie, anyway. Demitri had taken care of all loose ends before confronting Charles. Wife and kids.
Charles\' eyes widened and his jaw dropped, but he couldn’t scream. What little air he could pull into his lungs rolled out again in a gurgle, and Demitri’s silenced gun retracted, dropping a single smoking shell.
Then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, Demitri was gone, leaving only the drip dripping of blood on the once white tiled floors of Charles\' bathroom.
