Confidence

Chapter 1

Confidence.

Confidence is key.

Breathe.

I’ve got this in the bag.

I’m qualified.

No, not just qualified, I’m overqualified.

I glance at the nervous bodies sitting alongside me. Eight. Eights nothing. I can beat out eight people. So why can’t I stop bouncing my leg and why are my palms so sweaty. Is it because the receptionist won’t stop glancing my way, or because the last person to leave the interviewers office ran out in tears?

Stop.

Breathe.

Remember your mantra.

Confidence is key.

Round and around, I fill my mind with the same words. Words that have yet to manifest into my life. Maybe I should focus on something else. I casually wipe my hands down my skirt and stand. I can feel the receptionist’s eyes following me as I inch closer to the framed comics, newspaper clippings, and signed photographs decorating the wall.

Exactly what I’d expect to find in a comic writers office.

“Can I help you with something?”

The receptionists gruff voice cuts through me and I’m overcome with the feeling of needing to apologize, despite having done nothing wrong.

Confidence.

Forcing a smile, I turn to him. “Do you like working here?” I ask.

His brows pull together in a soft glare. “It’s a job.” He says.

“And, do you enjoy it?” I ask.

“Like I said, it’s a job.” He drops his eyes to his desktop.

“Well, I look forward to the chance of working with you.”

His eyes snap back to me with more heat than before. “What makes you think you’re getting the job?” he scoffs, a slight smile curving his lips into an unamused smirk.

“Because I’m the best fit for it.” I say.

I regret my words, but it’s too late to take them back, so I do all that I can to keep my confidence from quieting into a whisper. I hold my smile and clench my trembling hand to my hip to hold it still.

His smirk softens a bit, and he shakes his head. “Oho, she’s not going to like you.” He snickers.

His words cut through me. I can’t help but seek out the exit, but I don’t make a break for it. Just an intrusive thought.

He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s just jealous that I have a chance at a better position than him. Just because he lacks my same skill and education, doesn’t mean he should take out his inadequacies on me.

The office door bursts open. I turn to watch the interviewee standing in the doorway. His face is pale with tears running down his cheeks. His hand trembles so violently I’m surprised he doesn’t drop his briefcase. He stiffly walks down the aisle looking straight ahead. His eyes lack life.

We all watch in silence as he slowly makes his way to the elevator. The air is thick as the doors open and he steps inside. He turns to us, and his eyes begin to tremble. The doors close painfully slow and, once shut, they do nothing to muffle the sound of his gross sobs as they fade into the floor below.

“Nope.” The only other woman stands. “It’s not worth it.” She picks up her things, shaking her head as she steps down the hall.

Three others follow. Maybe I should too.

No.

I need this job.

“Johnathan!”

A shrill voice calls from the office. The secretary jumps to stand and rushes round his desk to stiffly stand in the doorway. His hands clenched tightly behind his back.

“Yes Miss?”

“Why is there not another applicant in my office?”

“Yes Miss.” He bows his head slightly and turns to us remaining four. “Who would like to go next?”

The man closest to him stands but turns away from the office to rush to the elevator with the others. The doors close on him before he can join them, and he’s left standing in front of the metal doors; violently pressing the call button over and over again.

I turn back to Jonathan who glances between the remaining three. I swallow and step. He offers a quick nod and turns back to the office.

“She’s on her way, madam.” He says.

His smirk is gone as we pass each other. His steps are much quicker than mine as he hurries to the safety of his desk.

I harden my steps, practically stomping as I feign confidence. I don’t have to feel it, I just have to look it.

I freeze just a few steps into her office. Is it colder in here? I swear the temperature just dropped.

The great Regina Roberts sits at her desk, sorting through stacks of papers with her glasses resting at the tip of her nose. Her brown hair pulled back in a tight unmoving bun. Not a single hair out of place. She looks nothing like her pictures. Where’s her gorgeously wide smile and sparkling brown eyes. The media makes her looks so nice.

I always dreamed of the day I’d get to meet her, but now I just want to run away and hide. Her eyes shoot up from her papers and pierce my chest, making it hard to breathe.

“Close the door.” She firmly waves a pen at me.

I stiffly turn to the door to close it, cutting off any witnesses from intervening with whatever comes next.

“Are you just going to stand there?” she says.

“Confidence.” I mumble before turning to her. “Mrs. Roberts, it’s truly a pleasure to meet you. I’ve been a huge fan of yours for years.”

She leans back in her seat and slides her glasses off her face to toss to the center of her desk.

“Did you just call me Mrs. Roberts?”

A painful realization stabs my chest. She’s not married. I know she’s not married. Why would I say Mrs. to her? I swallow.

“I feel like a true fan would know not to call me a Mrs., don’t you think?”

I softly nob.

Silence.

Stomach turning silence.

Should I say something? Does she want me to say something?

She exhales a long, exasperated sigh and waves her hand at the chair set in front of her desk. It takes me a second to understand she wants me to sit. I follow her wordless command. She watches my every move. I’m scared to breathe, or even blink.

Silence.

She’s just staring. Is she even blinking, or are we blinking at the same time? Is this part of the interview, to see how I handle pressure? The answer is ‘not very well’ but I can’t let her know that.

“You look familiar.” She says. “Have we met before?”

I shake my head, too scared to speak.

“Are you usually this quiet?” she asks.

“Would you like me to be?” I say.

That was stupid. I’m stupid. Why would I say something like that?

Her hardened expression faulters for a split second as a smile curves her lips before straightening.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Morgan Marie.” I say.

“Morgan Marie.” She repeats. “What an ugly name.”

I bite my tongue. Don’t talk back. Just let it go. I’ve heard worse. Her remark is nothing.

“Do you have any references for me?” she holds out her hand.

I pull my purse from under my arm and set it in my lap. The manila folder is slightly dented from how tightly I’ve been clinging to my bag. I hold the folder out to her, and she gently takes it. A bit of calm sooths my nerves at her gentleness. I was expecting her to snatch it.

She sets the folder in the center of her desk and slides her fingers down each side of it tenderly. She treats the papers within with such care, I would assume they were something more than just my resume.

Silence.

Her eyes shifts slightly as she looks over every word of my resumé. She’s careful as she turns each page to get to the one below it. A single drop of sweat cuts down my spine as I struggle not to make a single sound. I never noticed just how loud my breathing is.¬

She reaches the final page and shakes her head with a sigh. “You spelled determination wrong. It’s only one M.”

“My mistake.” I say.

She raises her brows. “Huh,” she breathes. “You’re just going to accept your mistake?” she asks.

“… yes…” I hesitate.

She leans forward, resting her chin on intertwined fingers. “Why should I hire someone who makes mistakes?”

“It’s only one,” I start.

“Two.” She cuts me off. “You’ve made two mistakes.”

There’s no humor on her face as she stares directly into my eyes. My throat closes at the thought of a rebuttal. I don’t want to end up like the others, leaving in tears, because I don’t know how to keep my mouth shut.

The soft clicking of a clock taps quietly as neither of us break the silence for what feels like an hour. A slight smile curves one side of her mouth as she pulls her elbows from her desk to lean back.

“Are you sure we haven’t met before?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I would remember.” I say.

She breathes a single laugh and drops her eyes back to my resumé. “You do realize that you are highly overqualified for this position, don’t you.” she says. “So what are you doing here?”

I prepared for this question, but all that practicing in the mirror seems stupid now. She doesn’t want to hear how big of a fan I am of her work, or the way her comics helped me out of a dark place. She probably has people praising her work all the time. For me to repeat words she’s heard so many times before will only blur me in with every random encounter she’s ever had with fans.

“Are you so afraid of failure, that you strive for something beneath your skill level because you see this position as an easy win?” she says.

Her words sting with truth.

Silence.

Probably waiting for an answer I refuse to give.

She narrows her eyes, losing her smile. “Are you so used to letting people walk all over you that you have no fight left to defend yourself?” she asks.

“I find that not responding to bullies takes the fun out of their teasing.” My words are hot as they surface on their own. I didn’t mean to say them aloud.

Her smile returns, curving enough to resemble her pictures in the waiting room. “So you see me as a bully.” She says.

I don’t answer, digging my nails into my palm. My silence irks me. I desperately want to fight back with words of my own.

She breathes soft laugh into her knuckles before swatting her hand through the air. “What the hell, why not, you can have the job.”

The tension, and heat abruptly vanishes from my body, leaving me frozen. My mouth falls open slightly as she reaches across her desk, requesting a handshake. I swallow as I place my hand in hers.

It’s cold.

Light shines around her, casting a deep shadow over the rest of her. Making her nothing but a silhouette in the center of the blinding white.

The ringing hits my ears before the explosion of glass blasts through the window behind her desk. My hand rips from hers as I’m slammed into the wall. Numbness rushes over me as I tremble on my hands and knees in front of the door.

The once neat room is now an explosion of glass and paper. Ms. Roberts turns toward the broken window as the shrill sound of hundreds of alarms trumpets through from the street below. Her hair falling from her bun to hang long down her back, reaching her hips.

The door opens, allowing me to kick into the hall. Hands clamp onto my shoulders and I flinch out of reach. Johnathan trembles on the ground beside me.

“What’s happening?” he trembles out.

I shake my head. We both turn together to look back into the office. Ms. Roberts stands in front of the window, her hands firmly on her hips as she watches whatever had caused the explosion.

Screams, alarms, explosions all continue to swirl together in the sound of violence.

“What’s going on out there?” Jonathan calls.

He hasn’t lost his voice, despite the tremble that plagues it.

No answer.

She stares intently out the window. Small cuts on the back of her arms darken as blood begins spill from each one. The sight of her cuts brings a sting to my own skin, and I become painfully aware of the hundreds of shards of glass scattered around my feet.

“Shit.” Ms. Roberts hisses. “He’s going to do it again.”

“Again?” I mumble.

She limps away from the window, leaning on her desk as she steps around it. Jonathan and I watch as she presses on her desk, sliding it slightly toward the broken window.

“Don’t just stare.” She groans. “He’s going to do it again.”

Jonathan is frozen.

I press onto my knees, crawling a few inches before fighting to my feet. I fall hard to my knees, hearing the crunch of glass under my weight. Pain brings strength to my legs, and I press beside Ms. Roberts. We slip over paper, struggling with her desk. Why do antiques have to be so heavy?

We slam the wall and struggle together to force the desk onto its side.

“Oh fuck.” Jonathan says.

He joins our fight, providing much needed strength. The desk scrapes loudly against the wall and goes silent with a loud thump as it settles into place.

“Get away from the window.” Ms. Robert’s instructs.

The walls begin to shake.

“Morgan, get away from the window.” Ms. Roberts says.

Jonathan and her stand on the opposite side of the desk, leaving me frozen beside it.

The ringing reaches my ears first.

Fierce burning claws at my skin.

A body thrown into my own as the edge of the desk fills with an immediate spark of fire.

The slow image of it all comes crashing over me, all at once. My head slams hard to the ground. My arms and legs pulse with pressure as books fall, but never touch the rest of me already under constant pressure.

Specks of burned paper flake to the ground, crumbling to nothing before ever reaching the blackened floor. Jonathan coughs on the other side of the room, dusty but otherwise untouched by the sudden explosion.

Ms. Roberts shallow breaths burn my neck, her body lying over me.