#WritingWonders 3.4: Interview question 1: Director Midnight, tell us something you envy about your closest friend.
My first question was this? About friends? I froze under the bright lights, because if I didn't freeze I was going to stand, scream, and march right out of the studio. That would help no one, and certainly not boost my public reputation.
Of course, the Director of Home had set up this interview after the announcement of my wedding the same way she'd blindsided me with a news conference before my unwilling installation as her second in command. The fatal question two weeks ago, from the prestigious Seacoast Sentinel of all broadsides, had been,
"Are you the 'Nameless Teenager, the Hero of Harbor Beach?'"
The reporter had displayed the color image that graced the front page almost a year ago. It showed a devil-girl in bronze-red pigtails with olive skin. She sat spattered in crimson blood, her magic holding down compression bandages on six constables while her hands worked removing a glass dagger from a seventh. In a fugue, her eyes blazed with a fiery glow—a reflection of the fire that illuminated the contrasty scene.
I was the first person at the scene because I was responsible for the disaster. What did it matter that Nightingale Glory had tricked me into helping her cause it?
The Director of Home, that vile woman who knew my secrets and manipulated my life, had forced me to take credit for the 271 saved. I'd been naïve, stupid, and a coward, unwilling to do what obviously needed doing before that terrible moment I had to decide.
I'd chosen to evacuate the building so I did save them all. But how many times had I saved Boss Glory that day! Had I not done so, the 6 dead and 10 maimed that day wouldn't now taint my soul.
They weren't my only dead.
I was evil. I didn't deserve friends.
I swallowed my anger as tears burned in my eyes. It had only been in the last few weeks that I'd been willing to admit that anyone would want me as a friend, let alone that I might actually have friends—not just trusted subordinates, team mates who had my back without asking, or an upper-classmate who liked to pal around with me to restaurants to get herself drunk, who wanted to spend time studying magic together, or who invited me to sleep in her bed when I'd otherwise have been homeless.
I found myself breathing like I had run a race. When the interviewer offered me a tissue, I wiped my cheek, then snuffled. I blinked in dismay at the lights, at the recorder lens, at the twinkling red light. There went the former street tough image I wanted to cement, with my torn ear and the faint scars I'd refused to let the makeup artist erase with green powder.
I whispered, "It's not fair."
Did I say that? Ugh!
"What's not fair?" asked the saintly interviewer.
Get up. Get up! Walk out! Now!
Instead, I shuddered before blurting, "What do I envy? 'Closest friends?' About any of my friends...? How can they possibly trust me!?"
I moaned and burst into tears. Not unlike two weeks ago.
I didn't add, I don't even trust me!
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