Storybird

It is easy to hate another, but it is oh so difficult to hate yourself. To wake up in the morning only to find yourself crying in the closet is unbearable. Especially if it’s on a day to day schedule.

I had a family, I had a life but I never excepted it. No sir, it was too much for good, old, Mark Thompson. I wanted to be a happy loner, but after you ask for something, take affection, for example, you are likely to receive a certain responsibility for it. Think about pet care, in order to receive love and affection from your pet, you must provide it with shelter, food, and a lot of your time.

My situation was similar, except this time, it was with a wife and a little girl named Finley. Heartless right? Someone like me should go to jail. Someone like me might as well hang themselves in the front yard of the abandoned. After all, the abandoned should get a revenge of some sort.

A hard, aggressive fist bangs on my door. “Come in” I mutter. An angry Frenchman practically slams my door off its hinges as he storms into the tiny office. His runny, red face stares past his gut and onto my hard, wooden desk.

“Is this Monsieur Thompson’s law firm?” He growls. Unsure of what to say, I sit their for a moment.

“Why?” I reply. That was probably the worst response I ever came up with in my life. Besides the one I came up with when Myra told me she wanted to have a baby.

“Because” The Frenchman huffed “I have a case that needs solving, why else?” I breath a sigh of relief. The Frenchman’s face turns tomato red, his voice low and dangerous. “This is a detective agency, right?”.

“Yes-this is a-THE Detective Agency.” The Frenchman’s eyebrows raise. “Run by Mark Thompson himself”.

“Splendid. I demand his audience at once.”

“You have it right now”. The Frenchman stares at me for a moment, sighs, and collapses on the couch facing my desk. “So what’s your case Mister...”

“Moreau” he growls. “Somebody stole my precious jade ring from my shop.” He stuffs a wad of cash into my open hand. “I would like you to catch the thief, dead or alive.” He peers out the window. A smile stretches across his face. “Dead would be more amusing”.

“Mr. Moreau, I am a detective, not an assassin!” Mr. Moreau stands, up so that he looms over me.

“I never asked you to be one, I am a mere law-abiding citizen. I was just joking.” He snaps. “Got it?”. I nod. “Good”. He sits back down. “Anyway, here is a suspect to get you started”. He hands me a crumpled up piece of paper. On it is the face of a buff, surly man. His red, curly hair covers the top of his face and his eyes are green and doubtful. “His name is Watson Stewart. His shop is two shops down from mine. He sells hiking supplies.”. As enthusiastic I am to receive a case, I am drained from my conversation with this hooligan.

“Is that all?”

“Isn’t that enough for you bloodhounds?”. I sigh.

“Yes, I suppose so.” I stand up. “In order to locate this suspect I will need his shop address.”

“It’s on the back.”

“Alright, I will see what I can do.”

“Mr. Thompson, I do not expect you to merely see what you can do. I expect you to DO what you can do. Anything less is not worth my time and is definitely not worth my money.” I open my mouth to speak before clamping it shut.

“Good day sir“

If you love something, let it go. The harsh truth is, I still love my husband. But clearly, he wanted to be set free. Who am I to refuse him? It will only hurt me more to keep him by my side, knowing that deep down, he wishes I don’t exist. I stare as a mother walks out of the grocery store across the street. A handsome young man has his arm around her shoulder, a little boy hovers around in front of them. A big, fat lollipop in his tiny grasp. The mother leans on the man and together, the three of them disappear into the park.

Finley catches up to me, her fiery red waves dance behind her head. Her deep brown eyes are focused on my expression. She looks at me, and then the family. “Don’t do this to yourself. He is not part of our family anymore. He is not my dad and he is not your husband. He does not deserve your tears.” She snaps.

I nod and together, side by side, we clutch the grocery bags. It is a picturesque scene, a glowing sunset, trees dancing in the gentle breeze, and Finley. “Watson’ coming over tonight” She informs me. I snap out of my calm, peaceful trance and burst into hives.

“Since when is Watson coming over?”

“Since I invited him.” She smiles. “You have been moping over that sorry excuse of a man. It’s time you moved on.” I am so angry at her that I can scream and yet I am so happy she did it for me. As much as I hate to admit it, she’s right. Again.

Watson comes at around 7:00 at night. He brings what appears to be baguette, cheddar, and a small, velvet box. Could it be? Is that a ring inside? Watson smiles. “Hello Myra”. The goofiest grin is plastered on his face. Finley smiles.

“I’ll leave you to alone.” I watch as she sashays out of the room, a knowing smile stuck on her face. Come back here! I want to call, Don’t leave me alone! Its too late. By the time I open my mouth to speak she is already up the stairs, giggling to herself. Watson smiles and behind his back he pulls out a bouquet of flowers.

“Jasmine! My favorite!” I cry. Watson grins. He pulls out the box. My heart starts pounding. Thump thump thump thump. He gets down on one knee. Thump thump thump thump. He opens the box. Thump thump thump thump. And inside, is a ring! A marvelous jade ring that slides perfectly on my finger! His eyes light up.

“Myra, will you marry me?” All the air inside me suddenly disappears. I am choking on my own joy. “Myra, are you alright?!”. He helps me up and his gaze falls on my overjoyed face.

“Yes! Yes! Of course!” What is this feeling? It has been so long since I have felt it. Is it happiness? Is it love? Perhaps it is satisfaction. Watson’s expression is indescribable. He pulls me into an enormous bear hug.

“Oh Myra,” he says, “Thank you”

Watson’s shop is as tacky as I presumed it to be. Fishing nets are pegged up on the swamp-green walls. Kayaks have been placed in the center of the shop. Fisherman mottoes are positioned above the cashier’s desk.

A surly, redheaded man approaches me. He must be Watson Stewart. “Hello there, fella, how can I help ya?”

“Mr. Stewart, my name is Detective Thompson. I am here to investigate a missing jade ring. The owner of the shop believes that you may have a few answers for us concerning the theft.” I reply softly.

“I don’t see a badge on ya, fella.” He chuckles.

Who says you need a badge to find things out?” Watson looks at me in the eyes, and then smiles.

“I think I may be able to help you out.”

I find myself following this odd man down a set of stairs. The lights flicker and the doorway to the center of the shop slowly disappears. Our footsteps echo in the darkness. Clop... Clop... Clop...

Finally, we reach, a small, rustic door. It practically falls off as Watson opens it. “After you”, he coos. I stroll through the door almost immediately. Inside is endless shelves full of papers. My hands shake as I whisk papers off of their dusty shelves.

On the papers are the names of various individuals, “Wendy Harper” I read, “Oswald Swift, Dylan Turner”, “Mr. Stewart, I have asked for answers, not the names of meaningless individuals!”

“I assure you, sir, they are anything but meaningless.” The door slams. I stroll over to the rustic door and knock firmly.

“Mr. Stewart, I demand you open this door!” The heavy sound of footsteps becomes more and more distant with each passing second. “Mr. Stewart!” Watson is gone. It is too late.

I begin to kick the door. My heel slams into the broken down metal. The seering pain drives me insane but I am forced to push on. I am a detective, never a victim.

The door snaps off its mangled hinges and almost immediately, I begin to leap up the stairs.

It is a lovely, summer day. Every flower imaginable is visible after rising from the face of winter. Today I am sporting my favorite pairing dress, a gift from Watson. I smile peering down at the jade ring Watson has given me. I stuff my hands in the pockets of my sweater. The trees allow rays of glimmering sunlight fall onto my face. Mrs. Stewart. Imagine that. Wedded. Happy. Loved.

A stuffy, mud-haired man rushes up to me. A look of anxiety has taken over his face. “Excuse me, ma’am, have you seen a red headed, surly man pass by?” I gasp, and reach for his face. “Ma’am?”

My hand recoils. “Mark!” He jumps back.p

“Myra! I didn’t expect to see you here!” He clears his throat. His hand quickly reaches his mouth and he begins to cough into his fist.

And here I thought I was free of the man who nearly ruined my life.