Personal Effects: Dark Art
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If by some miracle I survive my twenties, I am certain I’ll look back on today and think, This was the day I began to lose my mind.
Today was the day I coasted into work, still high from last week’s breakthrough, my grin beating back the gloom of these crumbling halls… and was unceremoniously shoved into a living horror show, a knife-sharp shadowdance called The Life of Martin Grace. That moment, there—me striding through Brinkvale, punching in on the Depression-era time clock, greeting my coworkers—was when my perception of terra firma reality shifted. Just a nudge. But enough.
I am stone-cold certain that Lina Velasquez was a meth-addicted hummingbird in a past life. The woman is pulled tauter than piano wire. She’s all cat’s-eye glasses and waving arms, a nitro-fueled perpetual motion machine. Her voice is a nasal blur in the background on any typical day. I don’t know why sleepy Brinkvale needs an administrative assistant who’s so damned kinetic, but I suppose everyone has a place… and Lina was currently putting me in mine.