Chapter 5: Bringing Back the Portable

Mitchell didn’t feel well as he returned to the administration building. The Deer Stag House had left him with a sense of dread. A deep, primal fear had burrowed into his heart and refused to be dislodged by the warmth of the sun.

He hurried up the stairs and into the building, making his way quickly to his office. He saw the lights were off, and Marilyn wasn’t at her desk.

“Marilyn?” Mitchell called out as he caught sight of his own door open.

“Marilyn?” he asked again, walking around her desk.

He stopped abruptly, turned, and vomited onto the floor. The remnants of his breakfast splashed up and stained his khakis. He dry heaved several times before he was able to straighten up, wiping his mouth off with the cuff of his sleeve.

Marilyn was hanging from the chandelier mount. Her pretty, light blue blouse had been knotted around her neck. Her eyes, which had been a sparkling green, were dull and glazed. Her once neatly-brushed and set hair was in disarray, and her tongue protruded from her mouth like a fat worm in a garden plot. Her pale flesh was sickening to look at, her breasts heavy in the plain white bra she wore.

When she had died she had wet herself, the urine leaving a trail down the inside of each leg and dripping slowly, rhythmically onto the top of his desk. Her blue, flat shoes were neatly placed in front of his desk, the heels touching one another on the wood.

Mitchell caught sight of a piece of paper on the desk with words written on it. He recognized Marilyn’s neat, professional script. Numbly, he walked into the room, vaguely registering the broken coffee mugs and the sheets of paper scattered everywhere. When he reached Marilyn’s shoes, he looked down at what she had written.

I’ve had enough.

She had signed it as well. The great, flourishing signature he had seen her use when writing birthday wishes to a staff member.

The sharp, bitter stench of Marilyn’s urine filled his nose and Mitchell stiffly left the room, his legs feeling as though they were of wood. He staggered to her desk. He picked up her phone, but there was no dial tone. Slowly, he returned it to its cradle, and he took his cellphone out. His hands shook as he dialed nine-one-one.