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There she sat, surrounded by soft, thick, white clouds and soft, baby blue sky. Angels and sunshine softly embraced her as she floated through what seemed so real.“Serenity,” she thought hazily, “I wish this moment could last for--”
“RING! RING! RING!”
“No...go away...”
“RIIIIIIIIN--SLAM!”
“7:30...” She deliriously repeated, “7:30!?”
Without further ado, she sprang out of bed, got dressed in thirty seconds flat, stumbled and slid down the stairs, darted across the living room, and slammed the door on her way out. So she completed her normal routine. No breakfast, no shower, no make up. She woke up late for the third time that week, so she ran, and ran, and ran. Sweat dripped from her face with each frantic breath. It didn’t matter who saw her--she would never jeopardize her career to make an impression.As she entered the tall, grey building of the Salem Chronicle, her bald, steaming, red-faced boss was waiting to give her a warm welcome. He was a stout man of about forty five years.
“Good morning, Quinn Gutierrez,” he always used people’s last names when he got angry, “may I see you in my office?”
“Let’s skip it. Just give me my box and I’ll be on my way,” she said with a depressed and hopeless sort of confidence. He had never asked to see her in his office before, so she had convinced herself in her tired state that this meant she would lose her job. With a surprised look on his face, the short, burly, hot-headed man got her a box. Only at this moment did she think that she may have made a serious mistake. She didn’t care though; it didn’t matter as she took her mouse and keyboard, trinkets and snowglobes and slammed them into the box, absentmindedly breaking the glass on a nice picture frame with a solid linoleum block. At that instant, the picture of her father caught her eye.
She didn’t want to go home, but had nowhere else to go. Dragging her beige clogs on the narrow sidewalk, letting her medium-length brown hair hang with her head down, she slowly trudged the long way home. As she opened the door, she remembered why she didn’t want to go back.
He hadn’t shaved in at least two weeks, as she recalled. His hair was disheveled and wild. He hadn’t worked a day in his life. There was enough hair on his chest to keep a family of four warm. He rarely made eye contact these days, just sitting on the couch, beer in hand, with a somber expression on his face.
“I got fired.”
“Why are you so worthless? How will we pay rent now?! This is the fourth time you’ve blown it in half a year. I hope you’re happy with yourself.
“At least I got dressed this morning...”
“RING! RING! RING!” This time it was the phone.
“I’ll get it...*click* hello?”
“Hello, this is detective Roman from the SPD. Am I speaking to Quinn Gutierrez?”
“Yes.”
“We are sorry to inform you that we have called off the search for your father, Jose. It’s been twelve years.
“Okay, I understand.”
Without further ado, she dragged herself up the stairs, crawled into bed, and commenced sobbing.
“You can’t go to bed yet! It’s 9:00 in the morning!”
“sob...sob...” She hoped to have the same dream and never wake up.
This time it was different. The sky was clear, and ports plentiful. The buildings and plazas--she could see it all. Statues, fountains, and canals lit up as the sun first hit them in the morning. She had gone back to Venice.
Upon waking, she recalled that her father had put her trust fund money in a certificate of deposit a long time ago. After pulling it up on her computer, she was both astonished and relieved to see the number $250,000.
The time didn’t matter anymore. She had made her decision, and was already on her way to the airport.