A prim white sheet of paper lay on Jake’s desk. A pen sat in his hand, poised to attack. There was a calculator to the right, the figures on a protruding leaf of roll paper were still wet. The phone sat, a red ‘busy’ LED blinking. Steam wafted up from the fresh mug of coffee, and a trail of the stuff beaded down the mug, across the desk, to a little puddle on the plush white carpet. But Jake didn’t notice, Jake was occupied. On the floor lay more papers, and closer to the wall was a filing cabinet. The drawers sat open, the disorderly records had recently been rifled through. Some of these papers precariously tottered on the sidewall of the drawer, ready to fall at the slightest breeze.
Coincidentally, there was a breeze. Jake’s thirteenth story windows were open to threshold, and the fresh air breathed itself into the room with astounding olfactory clarity. Jake’s sensory perceptions did not register the scent, Jake was occupied. The windows were trimmed with a charcoal colored surface, white marbled veins laced the material. The white walls, stretching right and left, magnified the contrast quality. Hung on the walls were various paintings, primarily modern art – abstract, yet geometric. The dull colors did little to oppose sobriety of the otherwise monochrome office. Jake used to sit and admire these paintings. Recently he has taken to sitting in complete despondency. Jake said he would have time to relax later if he didn’t relent now. Jake was occupied.
Along the wall there was a glass shelf. Upon it rested countless awards and other trinkets. One read across the bottom “Most annual sales,” from when Jake had been in marketing. Next to the glass shelf stood the door, slightly ajar. It was straight black, with a black frame and a silver handle. A little silver plate was mounted around five and a half feet up. It stated –
JAKE JOHNSON – MARKETING
A shaft of darkness slid unnoticed through the door and crept forward on the white carpet. Jake didn’t look up to notice. Jake was occupied.
Jake wore black shoes. He wore black socks and black slacks. He wore a black leather belt with a silver buckle. His uniform white shirt sat comfortably over his shoulders, and his gray tie emulated the modern art on the walls in all but chromatism. On Jake’s shirt there was a bit of a stain. A bloodstain to be exact. You see, the heavy humor had trickled down his face and saturated the crisp collar. The thick scarlet drops continued to drip until the greater part of Jake’s upper torso was reasonably moist.
There was a hole in Jake’s head. The hole was right below his clean-cut hair and a little closer to the right eye than the left. Jake’s skull was fractured and the fluid had hemorrhaged until his heart ceased to beat, and his blood pressure was in equilibrium with the atmosphere. There was now an abysmal cavity where the brain had been. The back of the skull was decimated. Most of the solid chunks had found their way out the open window and into the street below. Some, however, remained attached to the windowsill. A tuft of blood-soaked hair here, a piece of shattered skull there. Most was clotting now, thinly coated in the raspberry hued medium.
Jake leaned back in the chair and relaxed. The gun lay on the floor, still warm and still pervading the sulfurous stench of ignited gunpowder. On the desk lay a prim white sheet of paper – half-legible words were hastily scrawled onto it and the ink still glistened in the halogen economy lights. Jake was occupied. Jake was dead.