Previously... The news of what Brian had done to Emma, had gone viral on Twitter, Facebook, and other networks... Brian was feeling totally out of his comfort zone. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. Even at the time of that whole Cheaters thing, his reputation had remained intact. He cheated, there was a brief fuss, but it faded from public interest quite fast. The entire storm had blown over in less than a week. This was different. He feared checking his email. Last email he’d received had been from his travel agent, who he’d asked to look into flights to Switzerland from him, for a holiday. The reply had been formal, but he’d definitely gotten the point. It had said, “Dear Mr Jacobs – I wish I could help you, but my hands are tied. My boss insists that we cannot jeopardize our reputation by keeping ties with people like you.” “People like you.” What the hell did that even mean? Brian had been furious, sworn at the screen, kicked a chair, breaking it’s one leg and bloodying his toe at the same time. He’d received 12 sms’s in the course of the night, all of them abusive. Most he guessed must be from ex-girlfriends, glad at his come-uppance. Because he often deleted the numbers of women he’d slept with, he didn’t recognise the numbers. The messages were all similar. “YOU BASTARD U DON’T DSERVE 2 LIVE” “Now imwundering if you taped us too, what are you some kind of sicko? I’m so glad ure going down 4 this” “When I think about what u’ve down to that poor girl I feel SICK to my STOAMCHE you are a MONSTER u shld go to Jail for EVER “ One after the other, a list of angry, spiteful words. He couldn’t understand it. He’d just taped himself shagging Emma for a laugh really. It didn’t mean that much. Did it? These whining women were just sad cows, in his opinion. Then he received another one which almost hit home. It wasn’t cruel and angry like the others, it had a more even tone: “You have a personality disorder, Brian. You don’t care about other people. You treat them as objects. You will never know a loving relationship, because the only person you care about is yourself. You’re a sociopath. Look it up.” Brian stared at the word. Sociopath. He was about to look it up on his phone’s dictionary when he realised he needed to take his car in for a service. He checked his rolex. 09.28. The service was booked for 10. He’d better get going. He took the lift down to the underground parking lot where his silver BMW was parked. Number 13 – that was his parking space. He was walking up to the car, pressing the unlock button on his keyring, when something stopped him in his tracks. In large, ugly, scratchy letters, going across the body of the driver’s side, were the following words: YOU PRICK. Brian’s heart almost stopped beating. He couldn’t swallow. He looked around. Nobody was there. His car was his pride and joy. Moving toward his vehicle, the words burned themselves into his eyes. The letters were large and dagger-like, whoever had done it had gone to the effort to make the insult bold, legible, unmistakable. He ran his finger over the surface of the first letter. Someone had done this with a key. He looked at the words: YOU PRICK. He felt like he had been stabbed. He felt a murderous rage flood through his body. Not caring if anyone heard, he punched the side of the car, making andent. He didn’t care. The car was ruined. He shouted a list of swear words that would make any law-abiding person’s ears burst into flames. Later that day... Flo walked through the corridors of the technikon to the outdoor pavilion. She was supposed to be meeting Denver to share some lunch, but that was only in thirty minutes. He said he had a bit of emailing to do in the library, and would only be done at 1pm. It was now 12.25. She thought about the police officer’s visit as she walked past the notice boards. She was going to have to tell Blessing. She’d tell her tonight. Then she realised with a slight shock that she’d probably left the policeman’s calling card on the kitchen counter. Blessing was going to find out they’d stopped by anyway. “Well,” she thought to herself, “at least this will give us a reason to get Ntobeko out the house.” She was glad she didn’t have to do anything sneaky to rid her and Blessing of Ntobeko – she saw him as an opportunist and a sponge. She’d be glad to see the back of him. She emerged out the large archway into the sunlight. She had some rice, chicken and salad in a bakkie from home. Some students at the tech were too ashamed to show their economic status by bringing lowly home lunches – not Flo, though. She wasn’t ashamed of herself, nor of the fact that she didn’t have much money. She would one day, she knew. She knew how to work hard, and she was smart. She trusted her talents, and knew one day she would reap the rewards. Suddenly she saw Denver. She stopped on the stairs, stood still. She was about to call out “Hey Denver!” when she realised that he was lying with a girl on the grass. They were both lying on their stomachs, with their chins on their hands, facing each other, talking. The girl was blonde, with a side pony. She was wearing those short shorts – the super revealing ones – in hot pink. And a light green top with frills at the cut-off sleeves. Flo’s eyes narrowed as her thoughts became dark. “Don’t panic,” she told herself, trying to remain positive. “Maybe they’re just friends.” She continued to watch them from her vantage point on the main stairs. There were many other students lying around on the pavilion – it was a favourite place for lunch break. Other students were reading, chatting in groups, sharing food, relaxing. She focussed again on Denver and the girl. Their faces seemed very close together – too close for just friends, thought Flo. Then something happened that Flo could scarcely believe. Denver and the girl kissed. It wasn’t a kiss on the cheek, either, but a kiss on the lips. And it wasn’t a small, light kiss. It was a long, involved, deep looking kiss. It went on and on. Flo leaned forward. She was about the shout out, make a scene, and the clamped her mouth shut. Feeling a whirlwind of emotions start in her belly and rise up through her body like a tsunami, she cupped her hand over her mouth, stifled a cry, and ran back into the corridor. She sped down the corridor, almost tripping over some other students. “Watch where you’re going,” said a girl in a pair of dungarees. Flo didn’t hear her. She was making for the bathrooms. She sped into the girls’ toilets, ran into a cubicle, locked it, sat. Then she looked at her feet. Tears swam in her eyes. More came. Before she knew it, a river of tears was flowing off her pretty face, wetting her t -shirt. A river of pain, a river of sorrow – a river that seemed it would never stop flowing. Coming Soon How will Brian try to restore his public image, and will it work?
Posted on: Tue, 19 Aug 2014 09:44:03 +0000
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