The apartment was a mess. The garbage hadn't been taken out in days, and the counter top was so crowded that adding one more glass would have certainly caused some dishes to fall. A wooden desk sat in the corner, its natural almond color completely covered by scribbled-on papers and manilla folders. A feather pen lay across a stack of documents, and a jar of black ink was on it's side, it's contents spilling out.
The wooden chair that presumably went with the desk sat near it, a white cotton shirt and blazer draped across it's back. A black leather briefcase sat beside it on the ground, with the initials P.P. embossed in gold calligraphy on the side. Bottles were scattered all around the floor, some broken, others still intact. A smoky haze of nicotine and alcohol filled the room, making what would be considered to most unlivable conditions, except for the inhabitant that resided in it now.
Laying across the twin sized bed in the furthest right corner of the room was a 26 year old man. He wore dark brown pants with suspenders that hung loosely to the sides and off-white stockings. His sandy-blonde hair, which had grown just a bit too long over his ears, was messy and unkept.
Groaning, he turned over to his side and blinked his eyes open. The daylight that streamed in through the windows made his head throb. He propped himself up with his elbow and half-conciously reached for the bottle on his nightstand. After a few sips, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and yawned, shaking his head. What a long night…
The antique clock on the bookshelf chimed with it's usual, cheerful ring that perfectly opposed Peter's mood this morning. At first, he thought nothing of it, his mind still in a haze from last night. Then, the ringing persisted.
No! It can't be 8:00 already.
He had overslept. Again.
Springing off the bed, he rushed across the room, searching for his white collared shirt. Where had he put it? Peter cursed under his breath as he hit the side of his leg on the desk, and then nearly stumbled into the chair beside it.
There it was.
In less than a minute, Peter slipped his shirt and blazer on. He looked at himself in the small mirror on the wall for a brief inspection and noticed a red stain on the hem of his sleeve. Damnit…He'd just have to keep his jacket on today. Snatching up his briefcase, Peter headed out the door, slamming it behind him and hoping he would have enough time to catch the next bus.
Peter entered Benett & Richardson Publishing headquarters head pounding and out of breath. The bus had been gone by the time he arrived at the station and so he'd had to run the two miles it was from his condo to work. Shoving open the glass doors that led into the lobby, he made a sharp right and ran up the four flights of stairs it was to his office as fast as he could. Once at the top, he paused briefly to catch his breath before entering the room.
No sooner had he set his bag down at his work station did he hear an all too familiar voice.
"He's here now, Mr. Richardson. Just arrived," Robert Pennington blurted out, sounding more cheerful than he should about the fact that Peter had been late. Ever since joining in January, the man had made it his mission to get on Richardson's good side, whatever the cost, and even though Peter had been at the company for much longer than him, the lad incessantly looked for ways to single him out. Whether it was the younger boy's ambition or just plain jealously, Peter didn't care, and was not in the mood to deal with his antics this morning.
"Is he now? Send him in," the voice of Thomas Richardson said from down the hall.
"Boss wants to see you," Robert repeated to Peter.
Peter closed his eyes and smiled fakley, clapping his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Thanks Robert."
"Hey Peter," Rosemary whispered from a few desks over. Her blonde ringlets were pulled back with a red bow that matched the shade of her lipstick. "Don't let him intimidate you."
As Peter entered the office, Richardson gestured to one of the two leather seats across from his desk.
"Sit down, Pevensie."
He stroked his black and pepper-gray mustache agitatedly.
Peter took a seat, waiting for the admonishment that was sure to follow.
"Some tea?" Richardson asked, pouring himself a cup from the kettle on the desk.
"No, thank you."
After taking a couple sips, Richardson shifted his heavy form and set the cup down. "Peter, I'm going to be quite frank with you. This is the third time you've been late this week. I simply can't afford to have everyone in my office held up by your tardiness. It costs me money, and it costs the company money."
"I'm sorry Sir, it wont happen again, I promise."
"But honestly if tardiness was the only problem here, I might be willing to overlook it because you have been such a valuable asset to the company. All of our readers admired your work, and we have always received such positive feedback when we have published your articles in the paper. Sales were soaring, and you have been our most reliable editor and writer."
Peter watched as his hand reached for the cup and he sipped another gulp of tea.
"But your work lately has been…oh, how should I word this? Deplorable," he shook his head. "It's simply unreadable material. I don't know how or where you got these ideas from, but they're not representational of what the company stands for at all. And the formatting…good god, man." He yanked a paper out of his filing drawer and shoved it on the desk in front of Peter. "Explain this. How do you support these ideas on the war? And what is this word?" He pointed to the page and held up his spectacles for effect. "Un…uncarti.."
"Uncharitable."
"Uncharitable. Thats not the word I'm reading on the page. In fact, I can scarcely tell what I'm reading here. And thats only one of the many mistakes I found in last week's issue. We cant afford mistakes like that, Pevensie!"
Peter shifted. There was nothing he could say in defense. He had been out of it most of last week when he had written the paper and knew that it had turned out at best, sub-par.
"I've been on the phone all morning with the other editing companies across London trying to explain why we released an issue with such biased opinions on the war, and I've been able to come up with nothing to say that doesn't make the company look bad." He rose to his feet and put his hand on the wall, hanging his head. "Is there nothing you can say in your defense, Pevensie?"
Peter's head hurt and fought the nauseous feeling in his stomach. "I'm sorry Sir, I just wasn't thinking."
"Yes, yes, well I simply cannot afford anymore of your tardiness and 'not thinking'. It's such a shame too, as you have been such a solid writer for the company over the past 4 years. I used to be such a fan of your work. Your charismatic personality weaved into the writing you did, making for excellent pieces," he paced back and forth as he spoke. "But the work I've seen from you lately has been lacking in everything I hired you for." He sat back down in his chair and crossed his arms over his large body. His expression, though determined, hid a twinge of remorse. He sighed, "I wish I didn't have to say this Peter, I really do, but I've made the difficult decision to terminate your employment. I've hired on young Pennington to take your place starting tomorrow morning."
Peter felt like he had been punched in the stomach. Though he had anticipated that this was the reason he was called in, when the words were spoken aloud, it didn't make them any easier to hear. He swallowed hard, unsure what to say or what even to feel. Almost four years he had been here. Four years of a successful career in the field that he had worked so hard at. Four years…for nothing.
Richardson produced another document from his filing cabinet. "I'll just need you to sign here…" He dipped a feather pen into the gold ink vile and offered it to Peter, who remained silent as he took it. He paused briefly as his finger brushed the older man's hand and looked him in the eyes.
"Just right here on the bottom line," Richardson pointed to the paper uncomfortably. Peter swiftly scratched his signature on the sheet, the sound of the quill against wood echoing throughout the silent room. When finished, he dropped the pen back on the desk and slid the paper towards his now former boss.
"I'm sorry, Pevensie. Believe me, if there was any other way…" he sighed. "I hope you can bring that magic you once possessed back to your writing again someday."
Peter said nothing as he rose and turned towards the door. He felt as though all eyes were staring at him as he walked down the hallway back towards his office. Once there, the dead silence in the room spoke what words didn't need to; everyone had heard what was said from down the hall.
Robert stood in the corner, sifting through papers and only glanced up at Peter briefly before continuing what he was doing without a word. Rosemary sat at her desk, pounding away at her typewriter faster than usual and didn't look up.
Grabbing his briefcase off his seat, Peter gathered up his pens and various other miscellaneous materials off his desk that he had brought in over the years. He shoved them into his bag. He just wanted to get out of here. Once he had everything, Peter turned around and started to walk away.
A small tug on the back of his shirt caused him to turn around. Rosemary held out a folded piece of paper to him, smiling sadly. He took it, shoving it in his pocket, and walked out the door without looking back.