Joanne emerged from the bathroom refreshed but wet, and as she dried herself off, she checked her phone for any missed notifications. Unsurprisingly, there were many, but three caught her interest, though all for varying reasons. One, in particular, was more important to her as it had come from Nathan and on the back of a missed call, and — walking towards one of her towering hardwood closets, one towel wrapped around her hair — quickly typed a response:

Is something wrong?

Less than a minute later, as she heaved out a black sweatshirt and a pair of grey sweats, her phone vibrated with a familiar pop-up of an incoming call. Nathan. Accepting it, she greeted him once the ringing stopped as she used the side of her head and shoulder to hold the phone in place, dressing in clothes baggy enough to fit her half over. Little sock slippers went on afterward.

“Ann, I hope I'm not interrupting anything?”

“No, not really—but I am about to eat though.” She sprayed her deodorant under her arms. “Does this have to do with your message?”

“Yeah, I need to ask you something, and it seems easier to call.”

“Sounds ominous,” she said with a smile, easing her shoulder of its burden and returning the towels to the bathroom, phone now in hand.

He laughed. “Nothing bad, I hope.” His voice had tapered off at the end, becoming a whisper, and she remembered his irrational fears. “Cece and I finally have a date for the wedding. We have a venue and it's all systems go.”

“Oh.” The bed bounced from her impact on it, and she moved to lean against the foam headboard. “That is…excellent news. Where is my invite?”

“Ah… well, that's why I'm calling. Obviously, you are getting an invite, so my question is, as we will be giving you an invitation with a plus one, we need to know if you will be coming along with someone. There's a seat arrangement, and we need confirmation before tonight to ensure everything’s in order for next week.”

“I… don't know,” she admitted, and unbidden, a slight frown appeared on her face. Seeking an immediate distraction from the thoughts bubbling to the forefront of her mind by the call — maybe she should have gone for either of the two other notifications instead of what she hoped was a pleasant chat — and looked to the takeaway bag on her bedside table. “Nathan, I am really hungry. I will send a message later with my decision.”

“Oh.” A beat of silence passed and she cringed; her goodbye was abrupt and quite rude — and she had to wonder if her situation was finally getting to her because these past few days, she was disrespectful in one way or the other. “Okay, then. Take care of yourself, Ann.”

She should not take out her frustration on him. It was not his fault a part of her still held onto the past while he had fully moved on.

“Talk later.”

The call ended, and with a sigh, she turned her attention to her breakfast. She reached out to the bag and opened it to pick up a McMuffin. Unwrapping it, the smell of bacon, egg, and room-temperature sausage patties filled her nose as she brought it to her mouth and bit into it.

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Her taste buds lit up with a combination of tastes and textures: sweet, sour, salty, with a bit of crunch. The patty was juicy, the bun soft yet sturdy, and the accompanying condiments and herbs tied everything up nicely. Then, after a few bites, she decided to open the remaining notifications.

Honestly speaking, after the call, she was not in the mood for any more surprises this morning, but she knew no good would come from ignoring them, so with another sigh (though it was of trepidation rather than frustration at her actions), she disregarded the one guaranteed to annoy her in favour of the opposite.

The subject line read: ‘Follow the Instructions’ — and as she clicked to open the email in full, she could not help the snort in derision. What was with people and being ominous lately?

To her growing chagrin, there was no text; a file attachment with some instructions was all that was contained within.

She hesitated for a moment, convinced it was either hacked mail (unlikely given her account’s security measures and relative anonymity) or a joke they were playing (considerably more unlikely given the supposed serious nature of the clinic, but then again…?). Ensuring her webcams and speakers were covered, just in case, she decided to bite the bullet and open the attachment.

What she saw was as puzzling as it was vexing, and she had to quickly stifle the urge to throw her phone against the wall — because what the actual fuck was wrong with people? Was her situation a joke to them? Or had it been a scam all along and she was too hopeful to see it? Was Mia right?

Her appetite was shot and her mood had gone down the drain, but her stomach resisted her mental compulsion to stop grumbling, so grudgingly finishing her food, she decided to go three for three on the shit cake she was having. Clicking on the last important notification, an email from the new lead writer, Mr. Wright, more or less confirmed her as a glutton for punishment, but rather than rise in fury once more, she deflated where she sat.

The gist of it was that she had until the end of the month, so eighteen days in total, to write a short story centred around the theme of forgiveness and based in a mediaeval setting. All in all, it was a decidedly simple task, yet for the life of her, she did not know where and how to start — and with the useless piece of fucking shit that was her so-called treatment, she had no idea if she ever would.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. Her hands clenched into a fist and she set her jaw. She could—had to do this or she would like her job, and she definitely did not want that.

From the looks of it, the clinic was a scam, but maybe she did not need their help — or anyone else for that matter. Maybe she could just keep at it, brute-forcing through her writer’s block to put the words in her head on paper (or its electronic equivalent), regardless of the hopelessness of it all.

It had not worked before, but now, with the threat of termination hanging over her head like the Sword of Damocles and her deadline sneaking up on her ever-so-slowly, she would have enough of a push to accomplish what she thought was impossible.

Yes, she nodded to herself. She could do this — and she would because she was determined to complete the given task, and was stubborn, unable to accept nothing but success.

Mind made up, she crawled out of her bed and as she made her way to the desk by the wall, threw the squeezed takeaway bag into the trash can beside it. She switched on her laptop and once it finished booting up, nimble fingers deftly moved across the keyboard to unlock it. As her favoured writing app was pulled up, she left the room to grab a can of pringles from her kitchen — sparing her sleeping dog a passing glance to ensure he was alright, and a slight smile at the cuteness of the scene — before returning.

Settling down on the chair, she took a deep breath; there was a single-minded focus in her mind as she tried to start that magical transmutation of thoughts and impressions into a series of words and sentences, hoping whatever she wrote conveyed enough depth and meaning. Yet, it was not to be. Anything other than the strictest, most direct sentences was lost to her, and she was left with an awful, clunky, and unskilled prose.

It was certainly nothing to be proud of, and though a part of her felt happy to finally put words on a page since (what felt like) a lifetime ago, upon seeing the results of her determination, the greater part of her ached to write with the same eloquence she had taken for granted.

That desire, displayed in the trembling of her hands, made her fight her damndest to ignore the reality of her situation — but it was a losing battle, she felt, brows furrowed and gaze fixed on the cursor blinking almost mockingly on her laptop. She wondered if it was ironic that rather than feel the pressure of those words trapped in her head, fervently yearning for an escape, this exercise left her feeling emptier than ever.

A sigh broke past her lips and she deleted the nonsense she wrote, slumping into her seat afterward. She found her eyes straying past the singles (still sealed) to her phone and her mind to Davies’ instructions as she picked it up, and bereft of any other option, she clicked open the email once more — and as was the case since the beginning, nothing but hope fueled her actions.