Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

A Chapter by Ocularfracture

Miranda waltzes into work with a new spring in her step, only to run into some tragic news.


The soft, wistful melody of a piano comes from under my body, as the pianist plays a tune.

Me, in my sparkling, red dress, I stretch out on the top of the piano, microphone in one hand, singing along to the slow, sultry melody of the pianist as men crowd around me, cheering and whooping.

I bat my eyelashes, smiling up into the blue spot lights as I sing, slowly lifting one leg up to my chest. The audience goes wild.

Forming my lips into a succulent pout, I open my gob to sing the next line, but my voice is drowned out by an explosion.


I open my eyes in time to see my windows rattle and my power flicker. Sitting up in bed, heart racing, I look at my watch.

What kind of idiot is setting off fireworks this damn early?

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and rub my eyes. I’ll never be able to go back to sleep with my heart pounding so hard that I can watch my chest bounce, so I stand up and head for the bathroom.

I frown when I look in the mirror and see that my hair has gone back to its natural curl, and I now look like I have some sort of monstrous old lady afro.

Plugging the straightening iron into the wall, I drop my pants and plop down on the toilet.

Another bomb goes off, and the lights flicker once again.

“Thanks,” I grunt aloud. “Isn’t it enough that you ruined a perfectly good dream?”

I shake my head as I stand and flush the toilet, shuffling back over to the sink to wash my hands and tame my hair.

To my chagrin, I find that it is much harder to straighten out my hair when it is this short, and what should have taken only half an hour or so ends up taking at least double that.

I unplug the flat iron and take a wash cloth to my face in a hurry, before leaving the bathroom to go make some coffee.

As I step out into the kitchen, I hear the sound of my computer receiving an email in the other room. It doesn’t immediately make a difference to me; the only thing on my mind is that silky, black goodness that will wake me up and help me start my day.

I load up the coffee pot and start it running, my mouth already watering in anticipation, and my coffee cup already waiting patiently on the counter like always.

I hear the email sound again and yawn as I strut out into the living room to see what all the hullaballoo is about.

Picking up my laptop, I tap the mouse, interrupting the screen saver. The little icon in the bottom right of my screen tells me that I have 54 emails in my inbox.

I nod, sleepily, the smell of the coffee filling my�"

Wait, what? 54?

I blink and do a double take.

Sure enough, next to the little envelope icon is the number 54.

It’s rare that I ever even get five emails over night, much less fifty-four.

Confused, I open my browser and head straight for my email, where three out of the fifty-four emails are an ad from a clothing store, a coupon from a bookstore, and one friend request from the social networking site that I use.

The other fifty-one emails are all from men who saw my personal’s ad.

Shock envelopes me, and for the first few minutes, all I can do is just sit and stare at the screen. I don’t even really notice that the coffee pot has finished brewing my coffee.

The first email is from a man named Harvey Heitzmann, with the subject line “sup.”

For the first time, I begin to feel horribly nervous, afraid of what sort of people might be hiding behind these emails.

Trembling slightly, I click on the message from Mr. Heitzmann.

I find myself disgusted almost instantly.

“saw ur pic on c/l and think ur pretty hot. im a laid back sorta guy n open to whatever. if u wanna hang out sum time thats cool but whatever.”

And that’s it.

Wow, this is promising. Did he even read my ad? I wanted a guy with a brain, and this dude can’t even spell. On top of that, he doesn’t even seem openly interested in me at all!

“Yeah, we can meet, or whatever. I don’t really care.”

Why even bother?

I grumble and delete the email, moving down the line.

There isn’t much difference in the next five emails, or even in the next ten. All these men seem to have some ridiculous flaw that I can’t stand.

They can’t spell.

They talk too much about themselves.

They’re arrogant a******s.

With every single email I read, I feel more and more hopeless.

This guy’s too rude.

That guy’s a kiss-a*s.

I grumble and step away from the computer long enough to pour myself a nice, warm cup of coffee.

The hot, dark goodness feels great going down, and seems to strengthen me in a way I can’t seem to put my finger on.

I feel refreshed. I feel prepared.

I can deal with just about anything.

Feeling good enough to at least smile, I sit back down with my computer and continue going through the emails.

The main trouble I seem to face is that despite everything I talked about in my ad, none of these guys seem to share any common interests with me.

I find it hard to understand why one would even answer an ad if the person who posted it doesn’t seem to have much in common, and I’m sorry, but I don’t think that being single and lonely is enough common grounds to base a relationship off of.

I’m down to the last ten emails now, my hopes dwindling like the last few crushed potato chips in a nearly empty bag.

Greg Thomas- Egotistical.

Henry Morrison- Obsessed with NASCAR.

Alfonso Evans…

I bend closer to the screen and blink hard to make sure I’m actually seeing what I seem to be seeing.

“Dear Miranda,” the email starts out, kindly and properly.

“In my wanderings of Craig’s List, it seems that I have stumbled across another kindred soul out there on the same, dismal journey as myself.”

My heart hums and drums as I read on, his eloquence and proper English reeling me in like a fish.

“In so many years of searching, I have never found anyone to share the same interests as me, especially not one so beautiful.”

A tear fills my eye as I am called beautiful for the first time in my life.

“I imagine you’ve already gotten a number of other offers, and I can completely understand if you’re already interested in someone else, but you did say that you are open to friendship, and even that would mean more to me than you could imagine. Now let me tell you a bit about myself.”

I’m barely breathing as my eyes dart hungrily over the message.

Alfonso likes dark films, music and literature.

Alfonso is a night person.

Alfonso drinks his coffee black and his tea with milk.

My head begins to feel quite fuzzy, and perhaps even a bit dizzy.

Before I know it, I’ve read and reread the email at least 3 times before finally clicking “reply.”

My fingers drum lightly on the keyboard as I consider what to write in response.

“Dear Alfonso,” I begin, trying to keep up the propriety of the conversation.

“To be honest, I did receive several other offers, but yours was the first that really struck my interest. We have so many things in common, it’s unreal. I would definitely like to keep in contact with you and at the very least become good friends, though I’m sure that we will find ourselves becoming more than that, all too soon.”

I bite my lip, giggling to myself.

“Please keep in touch!” I write. “Love, Miranda.”

I teeter, for a moment, on the edge of the “send” button, before finally allowing myself to click it.

After that, I pick through the rest of my email, deleting just about everything in my path.

No other man seems interesting, and I don’t want any dresses, or any books at the moment.

The last email is that friend request from my social networking website, so I click on it, waiting for it to open.

“Alfonso Evans would like to be your friend!” it announces in large, bold letters.

I shake my head, smiling, and accept the request.

He’s one step ahead of me, that one.

I rush to look at his photos and find that he’s not really too bad looking. He’s got dark brown hair and green eyes, with a neatly trimmed goatee. I grin, flipping through his pictures until the annoying buzz of my alarm clock from a few rooms away tells me that it’s time I get ready for work.

I frown, not wanting to get up and get dressed. All I want to do is sit at home and bask in the fact that one person in the whole world is interested in me.

Prying myself away from the computer, I get up and head into my bedroom, where I slip into my suit. I pick up my pouch of makeup from my dresser and waste an extra ten minutes, dolling up my face until I can look at it again without feeling sick.

When everything is perfect again, I head to the kitchen and scarf a couple pieces of toast, before grabbing my briefcase and heading out the door against the threatening ticking of the clock.

The sun is trying hard to fight its way through the clouds today, but it is grossly outnumbered.

A cloud drifts in front of the sun, relieving my need to squint as I drive.

It’s an ongoing battle that entertains me to watch all the way to work.

My mood is so unusual today. Normally, things like clouds don’t amuse me, but today, I’m having a hard time finding something that doesn’t make me smile.

It’s funny how much more beautiful the world can seem when you finally find something to live for; when you finally feel like you have a purpose.

I pull up to the old, brick building not a moment too late, and hurry up to my office where a glassy-eyed Holly looks at me in alarm.

“Can I help you?” she asks quietly. I laugh.

“It’s me,” I tell her. “What do you think? Is it a drastic improvement, or what?”

Holly sniffles and looks me over.

“You look beautiful,” she tells me.

“Thank you!” I chirp.

“Dr. Vasquez, um…” Holly’s pink, glassy eyes lock gazes with mine. Something is wrong here.

“What’s the matter?” I ask her. “Do you need to take the day off?”

“No, it’s just… There’s some unfortunate news…”

Holly hands me a sheet of paper with messy, photo copied handwriting on it.

“What’s this?” I ask as she blows her nose.

“It’s a suicide note.”

Every molecule in my body freezes. My blood stops flowing. My heart stops beating. I stop breathing. I can’t blink. I can’t move. I’m rooted to the spot.

What did she just say?

“Dr. Vasquez…” Holly grabs another tissue, her voice quivering. “Jacques is dead… His mother called this morning and faxed over a copy of his suicide note. It mentions you…”

When I can finally blink, my eyelids seem to weigh a ton. When I can finally breathe, my lungs seem to be filled with rocks.  When I can finally speak, my voice is hoarse and breathless.

“Thank you, Holly,” I whisper, taking the paper and walking away toward my office. “I’ll just… be in here.”

I close the door behind me and collapse onto the couch where Jacques would sit during so many appointments.

Tears glossing my eyes, I bring the paper to my face and begin to read.

Dear Friends and family,

I’m sure that by the time you read this, you’ll all be blubbering like babies. I just want to start by saying don’t cry for me. I am not worth your tears. I was never worth anything, and all I ever did was burden everyone around me.

I’m getting rid of myself so that no one has to worry or be burdened anymore, and crying for me would just defeat the purpose of everything I’m dying for. So stop that right now and pay attention to what I have to say.”


With all my effort, I hold my breath, trying to stop myself from crying.


“I loved all of you. Mom, dad… I loved you guys the best, and I always appreciated everything that you did for me, even if I didn’t seem like it. I’m just a lost cause, and I’m so tired of seeing the disappointment on your faces. I’m tired of always being the a*****e who lets you down. I’m just sorry that you had to waste so many years on me. I’m a useless, pathetic piece of s**t and no one can help me.

Dr. Vasquez worked her a*s off trying to turn me into a better person, but even she couldn’t polish a t**d. Please let her know that I appreciated her attempts.

Also, if a girl named Mary shows up looking for me, please tell her that I love her with all my heart and that someday, we may meet again.

Well, I’ve already wasted enough of your time just by existing, so I won’t waste any more of your time dragging this letter out.

Thank you all for everything, and please try to be happy knowing that you’ll never have to put up with me again.

Love always,



By the time I’m finished reading the letter, my hair is soaked and sticky from all the tears that have trickled down into it. My lungs burn from all the sobs I tried so hard to stifle.

Unable to stifle them anymore, I bury my face in the nearest throw pillow and scream.

I couldn’t save him.

Why couldn’t I save him!?

What should I have done that I didn’t do!?

These questions blaze through my mind making so much noise as I sob into the pillow.

He had so much potential! Why did he do this!? He didn’t have to do this!!

A hand rests itself on my back, and I look up to see Holly kneeling next to me, red-faced and every bit as teary as me.

Crying softly, she reaches down and hugs me on the couch.

“I’m so sorry, Miranda.” Holly’s voice is high and strained.

Me, I can’t even find my voice. All I can do is lie there and sob.

He thought he was a failure.

How could he think he was a failure? The real failure is lying here, screaming and crying on the couch because she wasn’t good enough to save her own patient from killing himself.

The real failure is this, right here.

Dr. Miranda Vasquez.

The biggest failure in the world.



© 2012 Ocularfracture

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Added on April 10, 2012
Last Updated on April 10, 2012
Tags: psychological, trigger song, music, vision, premonition, friends, mental, crazy psychosis, therapist, suicide, patient, tragedy, sadness



Bennington, NE

I've been writing since I learned how. I'm not saying that 5-year-old work was any good. All's I'm sayin' is that the passion has been there as far back as I can remember. My mother always read me sto.. more..