Chrystal looked down at her hands, up at the screen, back down at her hands. She chewed on her lip and thought a bit about what Billy had said. She didn't much like where her thoughts were going. She clicked 'reply' and then 'discard' and then 'reply' again, still uncertain of her next steps.
She was good; she knew she was good. Billy had no right to be saying otherwise. He had no right to tell her she couldn't audition. He had no right to tell her she'd fail, before she'd even met the judges. But he was the boss, and she had to do what she was told, no matter how much she wanted the gig.
Telling herself that she was just writing it for therapeutic purposes and would never send it, she began to tap out an email, occasionally looking over her shoulder to check she was alone. She wrote of her distress, her distrust, and her fear of self-destruction. She told Billy of all her doubts about her ability, his dedication, their future. She let it all out in a flurry of words, barely away of which ones she had chosen. She clicked 'send'.
She checked over her shoulder again and pondered her situation. This was bad; she new this was bad. She'd never stuffed up like this before. It could mean the end of her career—or her life.
Getting up from the desk, she pulled a suitcase from under the bed, sneezing and crying as a cloud of dust whirled up to tickle her face. She opened it and started filling it, carefully at first, then with increasing vigour as the urgency of her situation struck her. When the case was almost full, she pulled the plug from the wall and threw the MacBook in, cables still attached.
She fled down the staircase, dragging the heavy bag behind her. It banged loudly as it fell from riser to riser but she didn't want to stop to adjust it and didn't think she could lift it. The important thing was getting the hell out of this house. She moved quickly across the entry hall and reached for the front door handle.