Incomplete

She walked into the office, sighting him by the desk hunched over, seemingly looking tired of waiting for her. She made way to her seat, sat down and took her glasses off, gently placing them on the table. Watching his face and body language, she sought signs of anxiety. Being sixteen, she expected this from him, as he did have a lot of emotions sitting on that babyish, introverted face. 

She had come in contact with him two weeks prior through an agent who wanted her publishing firm to acquire rights to his manuscript, claiming it was some rare, engaging work. He had been excited when she had told him she would review his book. Without a doubt, he had never been so thrilled.

Now, she was finished with it, or at least halfway through it. He was unaware of what she had in store for him, but that was why he had come. To hear the fate of his book.

"Well, for someone who's only sixteen, your writing prowess is truly remarkable, comparable to that of a forty-year-old,” she remarked, observing his face light up slightly, a weak smile replacing his usual timid and withdrawn demeanour. It was unfortunate, she thought, and continued. "Nze, your story has promise, but honestly, your main character is unlikeable , upsetting, narcissistic, and not very relatable.”

His expression changed, and he squinted in disappointment, deep in thought. She could sense his mood filling the room. Breaking hearts with truth was part of her job, however apologetically.

"This book, 'In-complete', does not fit the genre you claimed it to be. It is too dark and does not resemble young adult fiction at all. It is also unnecessarily prolonged and contains excessive violence and bloodshed... Despite its appearance of completion, it has a certain void that I cannot explain. To be frank, I don't think something like this should be on any bookshelf at all,” she concluded her assessment.

His head dropped, his eyes fixed on his fingers as he fiddled with them. Then he murmured, "That was harsh, ma.”

She sighed, shook her head, and rolled her eyes. In her experience, this was typical of young writers. They desired leniency and soft landings. Their minds were delicate, constantly running from all sheds of reality and unfiltered truth; from the constructive criticisms that could shape them into the prolific authors they aspired to be. She found their sensitivity repulsive and felt nothing but pity for the future of literature.

"Here's some advice, kid. It may come across as harsh, and you may even hate me for it, but who cares? If you cannot organize your work, writing may not be your calling," she said, matter-of-factly.

She watched him exhale, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, his gaze locked onto hers. It seemed as if the discouragement was the least of his feelings. He looked sad, but the depth of that emotion was not as deep as she had anticipated. He almost seemed indifferent compared to his initial reaction to her remarks. Either that or he was skilled at keeping his emotions concealed.

Impressive for someone his age, she thought. But then again, she had read his work, and while she disliked and rejected it, she recognized that his pen was nearly intense and good for his age. But of course, she would not tell him any of that part. There was no purpose in acknowledging him after out-rightly rejecting him. At least not for her.

He sniffed, "Ma, I never intended for him to be likeable. He serves to advance the plot. You should leave him and focus on the story. It was never meant to appeal to your butterfly emotions...”

"What?” She gasped, taken aback.

"And you did not finish reading the story. It is obvious,” he pouted in response. "I never said he was my main character, nor did the manuscript imply it. Merely having a point of view does not make him the main character. For all it's worth, he can die at any moment, if I wish it.

"And lastly, that character dies at the end. I guess he was inspired by the last publisher I had met with this work. Maybe you're right, it's incomplete.”

Stunned, she stood there for a moment, her words caught in the surprise that coursed through her. How insolent of him. Did he really just say that to her? She wondered.

“What did you just say to me?” she snapped, her voice rising, and her eyes stretching wide in a mix of both surprising and brewing ire. 

"...I'm sorry," he muttered after a brief pause.

The despondent look returned to his face as he stood up. His eyes avoided hers, masking the pain that had settled on his young features, as if he had mastered the art of suppressing his emotions. He picked up his backpack and walked out of the office.

She grumbled gallingly. Who was he to explain anything to her, even when she was trying to be nice? Not many publishers had the patience or grace to offer the advice she had given him. She felt insulted and, with disgust, reached for her laptop, found his manuscript, and clicked on the delete button. He was useless, after all.

***

After arriving home, he locked his doors and draped into a grim wallow. He didn't want to cry, so the tears never came. When the time read 9 pm, he switched on his lamp and sat himself at the table with his manuscript in front of him. Its cover displayed the title, 'In-complete,' with his name inscribed beneath it. Flipping over to the last page, he stared at where he had written “the end” for a second with pencil instead of a pen, then reached over for the eraser on the table and cleaned the writing off the page, picked his pen and started a new paragraph:

'After scrubbing her hands clean at the sink, she turned off the facet and made her way back down the stairs, straight for her office. Walking with a douse of class, she stopped only after her phone buzzed. Grabbing it and flipping the lock open, she read the text message from the bank. Instant shock widened her eyes in horror and parted her mouth in disbelief. Her fiancé, Frank, had just withdrawn three million in cash from her account, and she had been debited.

Shock-ridden, she hurried her steps down the stairs, gasped as she missed a step, and tumbled to the ground. The fall was brief, but she lay at the foot of the stairs a moment later, blood in her mouth, eyes wide open, her phone by her side, and her neck broken.'

With the final paragraph in place, he labelled it 'The End,' at the bottom, closed the book, yawned, and reached for the light switch, turning it off. Climbing into bed, he allowed nature to take its course. At least his story was now complete.

***

Nine o'clock in the morning at the Narva Publishing Firm, two police cars and an ambulance stood outside. Inside, murmurs from employees dangled around. The dead body had been found a few minutes earlier and the spot of the incident had been taped. Two officers squatted next to the corpse, one taking notes and the other examining the file he had on him. A third officer stood outside the taped scene, taking pictures of the body.

"That must have been some fall.” The first officer touched the dead body's neck with her gloved hand. "The neck is broken.”

"The damn stair isn't even that high.” The second officer sighed, then glanced at the entrance of the building, where the ambulance was taking too long to arrive, then back at the file. "Her name is Matilda Harrison, aged thirty-six. She's the owner of this publishing house… and what the hell is taking the ambulance long to get here?" he grumbled, glaring back outside.

The third officer turned too, and watched two paramedics hurry towards them with a stretcher. He turned to the annoyed officer, exhaling. "Don't get your blood pressure up. They're here.”

"Have her people been contacted by anyone yet?" the female officer said, rising to her feet as the paramedics got in and pulled the body onto the stretcher, pulling it away.

The second cop shrugged and handed the log clip to the third officer. "A few. All living far away. The closest here in town is her fiancé. According to an employee here, they got engaged some three weeks ago. Name's Frank… Ituma or something.”

"That is a shame.” The female officer shook her head as they watched the paramedics carry the body away on a stretcher. She handed a sealed bag containing the deceased's broken phone and engagement ring to the third officer. "A terrible shame.”

The second officer nodded in agreement. "Tell me about it.”