Taking place only ten days after the events in "Trepidation," Detective Pavel Morozov struggles to bring his life back together after the tribulations he has waded through with mixed success. Plagued with doubt, he still goes about picking up the pieces and reminding himself just who he is, and what he's capable of. At the very least, his colorful cast of friends and associates refuse to let him wallow in self-pity.
The walls had pictures of pastel ducks, the desk was a triangle shape, the lamp looked like it was choking itself, and the couch looked like whoever was assembling it gave up half way only to chug a bottle of vodka and then vehemently finish it, proportions or common sense be damned. Just like that, I had hated more things in five seconds than most people did all day. To make matters worse, Dr. Marshal was sitting at her desk and looking quite annoyed at a sheet of paper. She was a mousey woman, which in itself was a feat because biologically she was a feline of some sorts. Her glasses had a ‘hip’ and ‘trendy’ rim that must have been all the ‘rage’ with the young patients, she looked like the sort of person who would spend thirty minutes on a five piece puzzle, and to top it all off she smelled of raw bologna. It was as if the universe itself created the most perfect person for me to despise before even hearing her voice.
“Oh hallo, you must be Pavel!”
Dear lord, I hated her voice too! “Yeah…Dr. Marshal?”
“Please please, have a seat, was just looking over your paperwork right here. Meant to do it earlier, but where does the time go, am I right?” That voice was not high pitched, nor was it a deep bass, it was this unique sort of annoying that is only hypothesized in the most hateful bowels of cynical laboratories, no doubt ran by disgruntled graduate students.
“…I’m sorry what?” Maybe paying attention to her might have been a better idea. I felt mad at myself for being such a prick, it wasn’t her fault I was almost hit by multiple buses, or that I walked down the wrong street, or that she didn’t know pastel portraits were tacky, or that her outfit (and please note, I am not a fashion expert) must have been chosen by the CIA so she could be seen from outside the Earth’s atmosphere. I truly was not being fair to this woman.