Tag: short story

Agent Detmeier

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This is a short story featured on my new outlet for writing content, Delusional Thoughts From Fantasy Island (DTFFI). DTFFI is a twice-weekly email where I share original content in the form of lists, poetry, non-fiction, and fictional short stories. You can subscribe for free now by going HERE.

What happens when you are the watcher being watched? A short story thriller of fiction.

FBI Agent Detmeier didn’t think he’d hang off a helicopter anytime soon. It was the furthest thing from his mind this evening. Television and movies certainly ruined the junior agent’s perception of the service. After completing his training in Quantico, Jim Detmeier proved adept at the computer-something he was always mildly teased for by his classmates. Even in the twenty-first century, the classical style of bullying still exists. 

Because of that aptitude, his first job upon graduation last fall was the incredibly dull and monotonous Cyber Surveillance Unit. Since then, it’s been six months of monitoring shitty civilian tips and loose ends. If the Federal Bureau of Investigation had a hazing ritual, the Cyber Surveillance Unit would be at the top of the list. 

Agent Detmeier spent most of each 12-hour shift monitoring specific individuals on the Internet for suspicious activity. These often come from anonymous tips or go into the FBI pipeline for a suspect’s continued use of suspicious sites, usually teetering around the dark web or more suggestive sites of varying perverse flavors. Most of the time, individual targets did very little else beyond looking at pornography and sports scores on ESPN. Thankfully, most of the targets had their laptop cameras closed. For every closed camera was another in full, unceremonious view. Detmeier would like to forget more than he’s seen in the last six months of old perverted penises than three lifetimes could make up for. 

Jim strolled to his office outside Washington, D.C. He lazily swiped his badge at the entrance and again at the elevator to the tenth floor. Jim yawned twice while clutching his large mug of coffee and swiped one last time into his SCIF, or sensitive compartmented information facility. In that room, he shared a cubicle area with three other agents, each monitoring three given contacts during their shifts. 

“So, Timmy, who do we have on the docket tonight?” Tim was the closest thing that Jim had to a friend in his new position. Jim hoped Tim felt the same, but he couldn’t tell. The other two agents with them tonight, a brooding woman named Felicia Parker and a tall former Division I basketball player named George Russell, sat quietly at their desks. Only Agent Parker mildly acknowledged Jim’s presence. Her eyes screamed, “You’re late,” without saying anything.

“Goddamnit, I hate when you call me that,” said Jim. He revealed a slight smirk that matched Jim’s like a mirrored image. “Ugh. Fine…Asshole. So, we have the same three people as last shift – the suspected car thief, the boring fertilizer guy, and the chronic masturbator.” 

“Ooof, that’s tough. I get a new one tonight to add to my list after closing “Mr. Pyro.” Jim’s smile widened in a grin that screamed “obnoxious” and bordered “shit-eating.” The police in Dayton, Ohio, arrested Terry Tuttleman, 46, AKA “Mr. Pyro,” last Friday for conspiracy to burn his business down for insurance. It wasn’t necessarily a feather in Detmeier’s cap, but it gave his supervisor enough onus to provide him with more complex cases. 

“So, who’s the newbie? I know you got the other two boring ones. Let’s hope this one is interesting.” The two boring targets Tim referred to were both cyberbullies at the high school level. Beyond a few anonymous tips, there was nothing the FBI could do until either escalated their childish banter. Jim looked at his email and task package list and found his new surveillance target: William Ames, a suspected dark web administrator. Things were looking up. He closed his eyes briefly and sipped his lukewarm coffee before turning to Tim. He had to think of a witty retort. 

“Oh, whatever. At least I don’t have to sit there and watch my new guy type out Internet searches for Sydney Sweeney’s feet pics.” Jim laughed. He got him good. Tim started to chuckle but cut it off when he realized that would likely be most of his shift’s next 7-10 hours. “I got me a suspected dark web administrator – read it and weep!” His voice went into a southern drawl that sounded like he was the ringleader of a rodeo. Tim stared blankly back at him.

“Oh, screw you, that’s actually exciting!” Tim mimicked the finger (after all, the watchers were also being watched) and slinked back into his six-screen rig for another hour of monitoring Pornhub searches and Door Dash orders.

Jim settled into his shift setup after meeting with his supervisor to discuss his new target. Most of the surveillance job inside the SCIF was monotonous and tiresome. Without using a cell phone or regular Internet searches, each agent did what they could to ensure their eyes wouldn’t cross. As much as it sped up brain melt, a successful tour in this job wrote an agent’s ticket to bigger and better things within the Bureau. Jim could hang on that helicopter after all. 

The first hour went smoothly. Both of Jim’s cyber-bullies had homework to do, so most of their searches involved Wikipedia and Chat GPT. Mr. Ames, however, was very strange off the bat. Jim noted a list of searches in his log. He stared at the list on the screen in puzzlement. 

“Jazz influences of modern artists and rock music”

“Indian pornography and red circle sexy sexy”

“Metaverse article about the influence of technology and A.I.” 

What the hell did jazz influences and Indian porno have to do with the Metaverse? Some searches and websites puzzled the brain, but those three made zero sense. Jim looked at his watch. 8:30 p.m. Break time. He left the secure facility and walked outside with his telephone in hand to call his girlfriend, Maddie. The phone dialed three times before she picked up. 

“Hello, Clarice,” she said in a voice that attempted to mimic Hannibal Lectre. After half a year on the job, he thought she would tire of it. She did not. 

“Ha. Very funny,” said Jim. “How are things going?” 

“Not too bad. Just finished cleaning up after dinner with Janice.” Her roommate was sweet, if not mildly excentric. “Besides a bunch of random robo calls on my phone interrupting our meal, it’s been quiet here. Are we still planning to go to the farmer’s market tomorrow?” Jim had to do the mental math on how much sleep he could get before going to her apartment at noon to go to the Annandale farmer’s market before it closed at 1:30 p.m. 

“Sure, babe. Just slogging through this shift. I swear it will get better. I promise I’ll get on the day shift once I close another hot case.” Jim wasn’t entirely convinced that was true, but he had to give her a convincing lie. 

“Yeah, you will, Mr. Rockstar. OK. I gotta go. Try to call me again on a break before I go to sleep around 11:30 p.m. Love you.” 

“Love you too,” Jim said. He hung up and realized he would be a fool if he didn’t put a ring on her finger by the end of the year. He filled his lungs with the last deep breath of fresh air for the next three hours and returned to his desk. 

The night continued as usual. After a few random chats with friends on Facebook, one of the bullies looked to call it an early night. The other bully focused his attention on a girl. A few D.M.s he sent to the poor girl’s Instagram made him cringe. Either way, he made a file for the new conversation in case it progressed into something more serious. Mr. Ames continued a dizzying array of searches that made no connection. If this guy continued to type out gibberish with no prospect of conversing with anyone online, he would suggest his supervisor dropped the case. Either way, he logged his next set of insane searches.

“California drought figures  2011 to 2022”

“After Hours Movie Quotes”

“Lion and witch and wardrobe” 

“Lady PGA tour leaders of the last twenty years” 

Jim continued to monitor the two active targets for the next hour. Eventually, Mr. DM gave up on his latest love, Lex, and fell asleep. That left Mr. Ames. His next slew of searches seemed as random as ever until Jim noticed something as he logged the final one. 

“Heroism in the military and examples”

“Electric vehicles of the future”

“Realizations of horrific news for J.D.”

Jim looked at his watch. It was 11:16 p.m. He wiped his blurry eyes and looked at the last one: “Realizations of horrific news for J.D.” What? What is J.D. This guy did a lot of dumb searches, but that one seemed especially stupid. Jim waved Tim over to look at it. 

“Huh. I have no idea. This guy seems like a nut job who is just typing random shit. Probably not a lot of the black market and too much black tar. I wouldn’t read too much in on it, bud.” Tim gave his coworker a reassuring pat on the back before returning to his desk for his monitoring.

Another long search came into his database, turning his blood cold. He saw the search on the screen: a single word written repeatedly. 

“ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC HAHA ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC HAHA ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC ACROSTIC”

Jim knew what an acrostic was. He quickly opened Ames’ file and looked at all the searches in a row. 

“Jazz influences of modern artists and rock music”

“Indian pornography and red circle sexy sexy”

“Metaverse article about the influence of technology and A.I.” 

“California drought figures and 2011 to 2022”

“After Hours Movie Quotes”

“Lion and witch and wardrobe” 

“Lady PGA tour leaders of the last twenty years” 

“Heroism in the military and examples”

“Electric vehicles of the future”

“Realizations of horrific news for J.D.”

He saw it almost immediately before moving towards the door of the secure facility to grab his phone: J I M C A L L H E R. J.D. was Jim Detmeier. 

He nearly toppled over Agent Russell’s massive body as he darted out to grab his phone. He unlocked the screen and saw no missed calls. “Oh, thank god,” he said to himself. He scrolled on his phone for a second to calm down. He saw a single unread text message from an unidentified number in his area code. He could only muster a short gasp before calling Maddie immediately. The single text message said the same thing as the search: “Call her.”

The phone rang five times before Maddie answered.

“Jim, I didn’t think you were going to call, I was about to–” 

“GODDAMNIT MADDIE DON’T HANG UP!” Jim shouted into the phone. “Maddie, are you OK?” 

“Jesus, Jim, can you tone it down a little?” Maddie said. “Yeah, I am good. I was getting ready to go to sleep. What the hell is wrong?” 

Jim couldn’t get the words out fast enough as he fumbled for his keys. Screw work. Work will always be there. He had to drive to see her and make sure she was OK. “Maddie, I don’t know what’s going on, but I think somebody is fucking with me.” 

Maddie sounded puzzled. “Who is messing with you? How could they know – you’re FBI.” He interrupted her. 

“Look, damnit, I don’t know.” He started the engine and nearly wrecked his car, putting it in reverse in the tight parking lot. “Maddie, has anything weird happened tonight? You didn’t say anything earlier, right?”

“Jim, I am fine. Besides the random robocalls, there’s nothing wrong.” Jim suddenly remembered the robo calls from earlier. 

“Mads, what is the number? Is it the same number? How many times did they call?”

She took a second to go through her phone and made a noise that he knew was her sour expression. “Huh. I didn’t realize it, but they are all from the same number.”

“OK, Mads! Listen to me.” Jim screamed into the phone as he drove 86 mph down Interstate 495 toward the Wedgewood apartment complex in Annandale. He didn’t care if the cops stopped him. Hell, the thought of getting pulled over might be better. He might need backup. “You need to stay put wherever you are.” 

“Jim, what the hell is going on? You’re scaring me,” Maddie said with increasing concern. 

“MADS! I hope I am. You and Janice need to lock the front door, get into a safe room, and lock that door. Then you need to call the police and wait for me. I am almost there! Please stay on the phone with me. I am almost there.” Jim saw signs for her exit.

“Oh,” she said, “that number is calling again. Should I answer it?” 

“Maddie, no! Just hang on. I am coming to you. Baby, please stay safe and get into a room and lock the goddamn door!” 

“OK, Jim, OK!” she looked at her phone. “Whatever it was went to voicemail. I’m getting scared.” 

“I am almost there. I am..” 

Just then, Jim heard three loud knocks on the door and heard a voice that sounded like his. He could barely hear it. 

“Hey babe,” the voice said. “I’m here to help. Open up!” Jim’s bowels nearly loosened from the other end of the line. 

“Oh, thank God, Jim. You’re here. Coming.” She hung up immediately. 

“NOOOOO. MADDIE!!!” Jim screamed into his phone. He was a mile away from her exit and could see her apartment from the view of the treetops. 

Agent Detmeier had the opportunity to lead the FBI manhunt in the incident’s immediate aftermath. Maddie’s phone was first analyzed at the forensics lab back in Quantico. The voicemail was only a few words. The voice on the message ran through countless samples and databases to find a source. The words haunted Jim, driving him to relative insanity…but he couldn’t let go. He could hear the words when he closed his eyes to sleep. He could hear it when he looked at old pictures of his beautiful girlfriend when she was alive. It was a constant. Those words. 

J.D. ACROSTIC. J.D. ACROSTIC. CALL HER. CALL HER. NOT IN TIME. NOT THIS TIME.  

Story Dice #1: Take Me Home (Old Country Buffet)

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In which I generate five random story dice and create a short story out of it. See the full list of stories HERE.

Terry could not believe she said yes. She honestly seemed excited when he told her where they were going. When she gave him a list of what she was into after they matched online, Terry was perplexed to say the least. His match, Lisa, wanted the following out of their dinner date spot:

  • Fun, but eclectic with a “dose of nostalgia”
  • Not fancy, but clean
  • Somewhere with a lot of people (She noted her love of the sound of “busy;” whatever the fuck that meant
  • Somewhere cheap (As she said, “it’s just a first date – no need to break the bank”)
  • And finally, somewhere that will make her laugh upon reveal

Terry kept their initial conversation fun and flirty. Secretly, he stressed about what location could encompass all of those extremely specific things. To him, it seemed like a really tall order. Lots of expectations. He ended their first chat exchange with a promise to reveal their date spot a few hours before he picked her up. She lived only twenty minutes in the neighboring town, so he began looking through Google Maps and Yelp to find a spot that fit the exact description of clean, nostalgic, and cheap. About five minutes into his search, he found it: Country Time Buffet. 

The restaurant sat tucked away in the corner of a shopping center he sometimes went to for his dog’s speciality food. The reviews were okay for a buffet of its vintage. The pictures inside reminded him of going to Old Country Buffet with his family as a kid. It hit all the points that Lisa wanted and more. The gold-tinted buffet islands. The outdated menu selection with familiar favorites the whole family could enjoy. A website with only the address and business hours listed (in Courier font no less). The early-1990s carpet that probably hadn’t been replaced in years, if at all. The only thing he wasn’t quite sure of was the cleanliness. A few of the reviews on Yelp pointed to that. He hoped “not fancy” was more important than a place being ostensibly clean. 

Terry picked up Lisa at 6:30 pm. They got Starbucks and drove around for a bit to get to know one another. Terry loved her bubbly personality. She even managed to laugh at a few of his jokes. They arrived at Country Time Buffet around 7:15 pm. When they walked in, the place was almost completely empty. Lisa giggled with excitement as Terry payed in advance for their admission into the buffet. There were five separate buffet areas oriented in a giant “U” shape. Terry noticed a booth in the back with a group of kids, likely the owners’, working on schoolwork while an older woman vacuumed the aging carpet in an empty seating area near them. 

“So, yeah, I guess we can pick a booth and go at it,” he said. The half smile he gave Lisa was one of half-confidence. He would never dream of taking a first date to a three-star buffet in the back of a strip mall. But here they were, and she still had a smile on her face. That had to account for something. 

They sat down briefly in a booth near the front entrance to set their coats down. In their hands, they already had their drink cups and their first plate. The woman at the register in the front, likely the matriarch of the family business, made it a point to hand out the first plate because “they had been discouraging people to come in with tupperware and eat us out of business.” So, it seemed it was a modestly priced Buffett ($15.75 got you entrance to the good eats with all the soda, water, or tea you wanted). Coffee was oddly extra. 

After a few more careless chit-chats about their strategy, Lisa touched Terry’s arm and made her way to the salad section. Terry headed to the soup first. Growing up in the northeast, soup was a way of life for nearly the entire year. You ate your chowder when it was cold out, and you still had it in the summer to savor the best catch from the Atlantic. He grabbed a bowl from the side of the soup stand adjacent to the salad station and placed it on his first plate. He glanced over at Lisa busily arranging a series of healthy toppings onto a bed of romaine lettuce. 

He looked down at the steaming circles and saw the three soup options, all uncovered and blistering in the heat from the yellow lamp above it: broccoli cheddar, some sort of chicken noodle, and New England clam chowder. Terry thought none of the options looked good. He glanced over at the salad bar to find it empty. Lisa was already back at her seat and on her phone, waiting for Terry to return to start eating. He looked around at the other four parties seated around the large dining area. Nobody had soup. Was that a coincidence. He was about to exit the area when the woman who took his money came up from behind him. 

“What’s wrong?” She said in an elevated tone. Her brow furrowed. “Are you not hungry?”

“No, it’s not that,” he said, “I was just wondering if I wanted soup or not.” He felt that was a good enough lie to get him a quick exit out of the soup and into some healthy greens. The lady grabbed his soup bowl and ladled a large amount of soup from the third selection. 

“You do. Here, try the clam chowder. I made it fresh today.” Terry wasn’t so sure, because there was a slick of oil on the top that was so thick he thought America might invade it. The lady gave him a smile that felt uncomfortable and walked back into the kitchen. Terry grabbed a packet of oyster crackers and headed towards the table. 

When Terry got back to the table, Lisa quickly set her phone down and greeted him with her smile. 

“Shall we eat,” she exclaimed as she bit into her first few bites of salad. Terry smiled back, staring down at his soup-adjacent liquid contained in his tan plastic bowl. The bowl had a small hole on one side, just in case you wanted to chug the chunks like a hot lemon tea. 

He took his first bite as he talked to her about his job. He choked through it as he got to the point of discussing the finer parts of defense consulting. The soup tasted even oilier than it looked. The chunks of clam tasted somehow like wet pearl onions. He wasn’t exactly sure if they were even thawed from their frozen state yet. Definitely from a can. The lady was correct in saying the soup was made that day. She never said it was any good. It was not. But he continued to chat with Lisa as he politely finished the bowl. 

After they talked for a few more minutes, they realized their first course was done. Time for the main show. They walked together up to the buffet area together and grabbed a plate. This time, they both walked through the hot food section together, chatting as they selected from the usual assortment of homestyle favorites like green beans, mashed potatoes, fried chicken and meatloaf. She was heavy on the green beans. He went heavy on the meatloaf for some reason. Once again, none of it looked promising. 

Terry felt the first twinge in his stomach about four bites into his main course. It couldn’t have been the food he ate earlier. He never ate heavy on the day of a date. He did the mental gymnastics in his head and thought all that he had that day: two eggs, a cliff bar, and a small bag of chips from his work’s vending machine. No. This had to be the damned clam chowder with the barely edible clams from the Exxon Valdez spill. He cleared his throat a few times and kept eating. The lady came by and took their plates from the first course and refilled their iced tea and water glasses. 

“How did you like the chowder?” 

“It was fantastic. Just like home.” Terry knew that she knew he was fucking with her, despite his best impression of politeness. Her smile quickly turned to a frown. He thought he saw a bit of disgust.  

“Well, just a reminder, we close at 8:30 sharp, so don’t sit in here all night eating all this good food.” 

“Will do, m’am,” Lisa said with a pleasant gaze that brought back the lady’s smile. All the while, the low murmurs in his stomach became a full blown growl. By the time he finished his serving of mashed potatoes and half the meatloaf, the pain from his stomach traveled up into his chest and nearly through the esophagus. Whatever was in there wanted to leave. Now. He couldn’t tell if he was sweating or not, but he sure felt like it. 

“Will you…p..please excuse me,” he stuttered to her.

“Oh, sure. Are you okay?” She seemed genuinely concerned as she finished up her plate of vegetables. 

“Yeah, no. I am good. Just need to wash up real quick.” Of course everyone knows when you say “yeah, no,” it really just means just “no.” Also, washing up in your second plate of food was insane. He knew it. She probably knew it. But he did’t have time to explain more. He had to get to the bathroom. 

Terry sprinted towards the back corner of the restaurant to a swinging door. There was only one restroom with a single toilet and it was occupied. He banged on the door as the clam chunks began to rise. 

“PLEASE. .PL..HRRRRRR…EASE…” I need to go to the bathroom.” He banged on it a few more times. He gagged even more.

“HEY! Just a minute buddy.” It sounded like an older gentleman was in there. He wasn’t sure what the bathroom would look like. The place was relatively clean, but even relatively clean places that have bathrooms that look like the scene from Trainspotting. At this point, he didn’t care. He would blow chunks in a fucking Christmas stocking if he had one. 

Three minutes later, a short older man with thick glasses walked out of the restroom. “Here you go, asshole. Take your time, buddy.” Terry didn’t even acknowledge him. By now, the full-on flop sweat started to soak into his dress shirt. He stormed into the restroom and immediately expelled the tea, chowder, mashed potatoes, and whatever meatloaf he managed to put into his body into the toilet. It felt like hot rocks were shooting out of his mouth. He could taste everything as it came up, which made him throw up even more. He finished his vomit session with a few whimpers and spits into the toilet about three minutes later. 

After flushing away the evidence, he cleaned himself up as best he could in the mirror. Terry splashed water on his face to get some color back. It didn’t work. He stayed in the bathroom for a few more minutes to compose himself. He knew he wasn’t going to eat. He would instead ask the woman for a coffee cup. Hell, he’d even pay for it. They couldn’t fuck up coffee, right? 

He exited the restroom about twelve minutes after first entering his vomit-fest. Lisa was not there. A short note written in pencil on a napkin now sat where her finished plate of food was. Terry could only laugh after reading it. 

“Terry – this was fun, but really? A fucking buffet? I wanted nostalgic, not trashy. Don’t break the bank, but damn…not here boo. I’m sure you are a nice guy, but this isn’t it. Better luck next time, kiddo. Thanks for the mediocre food. Hope you found whatever you are looking for in there. You didn’t look so hot before you left. My girlfriend picked me up. I was texting her the minute we got in. You did make me laugh, though. Ciao.”

Terry stared at the note for a few more minutes before the lady came back around to collect the plates. 

“Are you all alone now?” She asked. There was now a smug look of satisfaction on her face he didn’t like. 

“I am. I guess it wasn’t meant to be.” 

“It never was,” she said as she walked away with the empty plates.

Terry thought about just getting up to leave when he suddenly felt the urge for some dessert. How bad can defrosted cheesecake be anyway? 

He had three pieces before heading home. The lady gave him a cup of coffee. On the house. 

Sloth – PART I

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Part of the Seven Deadly Sins Short Story Series. What is it?

This is the story of Cliff and Sarah.
The story format is Instructable.

Part I

How to Ruin Your Relationship

Hello instructable users! Are you in a stable relationship and are looking to royally fuck it up? Are you tired of people giving you “life hacks,” when they themselves can’t seem to put a pair of pants on alone?

Then look no further. Thanks to my asshole husband (soon to be ex-husband), I have a step by step process of how to ruin your relationship together. I’ll show you how somebody can go from an ambitious and upstart “man-of-the-century” to fat, alcoholic, degenerate who can’t pay his phone bell. For the sake of protecting his name for the next round of our lawyers and child custody, I will call my husband “Cliff.” Why? Because that’s what he fucking fell off of over the last six months.

My name is Sarah. This is my life instructable.

Materials:

  • A once-ambitious man/woman (for this scenario, we will use “Cliff”)
  • Real life people problems
  • A child
  • A high-powered job or profession
  • Home mortgage
  • Copious quantities of alcohol
  • A sizeable severance package


Step 1: Meet a Significant Other

800px-Under_the_veil

The first step is the most important of all! It might seem obvious, but I want to be as thorough as possible for this instructable. I think those are the ones that get the most votes, after all.

Anyways, it’s important for this process to find somebody and fall in love with them. You don’t necessarily have to get married to them, but it surely helps. That is what Cliff and I did a mere eight months after meeting each other in a coffee shop. More on that later. I thought we married for love. I never thought it was for “convenience.” That should have been my first warning sign. Unfortunately, that is an entirely different instructable.

As a side note to this first step, I want to tell you: Don’t have a favorite song. Just don’t. Don’t listen to it. Don’t dance to one at your wedding ceremony. It’s the first thing you’ll do as a married couple, but the last thing you will want to remember. Once it’s over, you will end up hearing it in your car in the days and months ahead (see the final step if you want to spoil it.) For your sake and your sanity, don’t have a favorite song. Our song was “God Only Knows” by The Beach Boys. Fucker.

Step 2: Make Lots of Money to Complicate Things

424px-Sweat_suit_is_not_equal_to_business_suit

Okay. So you have a new man or lady in your life. Things are going great. Every kiss was new. Every fuck was a new feeling and sensation you knew couldn’t get any better. You were right.

The honeymoon period has a way of putting a haze over your eyes to the realities of the situation at hand. Everything was going smoothly in our new marriage. At the time, Cliff was a hedge fund manager at a big fancy company in Washington, D.C. I was just a barista who handed him his venti latte every morning at 7:30am sharp. Every morning. Remember that.

Once we got married, I had the option to “take a break” and finish school. His salary allowed us to find a new place in the city. It was my dream home. I was literally living the dream. For a failed grad student working at a Starbucks, I felt like I was married to Prince Charming. He swept me off my feet in that first year. I had time to pursue cooking, go to school, and be there when Cliff got home from work. Part of me felt like a 1950s housewife, which I secretly resented.

Step 3: Have a Baby

24062012-Son_pied_entre_mes_doigts_(7438753628)

If you really want to screw things up, why not add a baby to the mix?

As a result of the fairytale, I got lazy about birth control and got pregnant when I didn’t want to. I was too busy being a homemaker and student, I guess. We were married and very happy on the surface, so we decided to stick with it. We converted my “study” to a nursery. Thankfully, the home we bought was big enough to incorporate our baby with room to spare.

To make a long step short, we had the baby. We will call her Jane for the sake of her privacy. It was only after the baby that everything really happened. Everything fell to shit. That’s when the drinking started. That was the beginning of the end. The fairy tale was over before it even began.

To be continued…

(all images courtesy wikimedia commons)