Writer's Notebook

With his heavy frame Robert pushed the door open and put the three remaining files down on his desk before turning to close the door. He no longer felt even a tinge of guilt over what he was doing. He hadn't done so for months. At first it hadn't been like that. He'd needed a stiff dring every time he altered one of the files. All that was changed. The allure of a life of luxury on a far-off pacific island had been a powerful amnesiac. The act had become easier with each passing week. Yet today, he felt somehow uneasy and couldn't explain why.

He sat down at his desk and contemplated the files, precariously perched on the edge of his desk. Just a few more weeks and the job would be finished. After that they would no longer hear of Robert D. Frost. For a while they would no doubt wonder what had become of him. Then, he would sink into forgetfulness until sometime in the future someone would stumble upon his scheme. But by then, he would be far away, untouchable and living a life of luxury.

Robert closed his eyes. The light strippings sent out their unbearably vivid light. Reflected off the white walls, it gave him a sense of hostility as if his new office had vowed to turn his last weeks in the company to hell. Why had they given him a new office? And why had they given him the only one without a window. He hated it so much, he had even taken to smoking just to have an excuse to get out of the office every now and then. Nobody ever noticed that it was always the same cigarette he stuck between his lips whenever he went out. And since it had disappeared by the time he came back, no ever wondered at not seeing him actually light up.

But maybe that was what was going on. They were just looking for an opportunity to get him out of the office. What if whenever he left, they came to check through his files. Surely, they would know his game by now. The light was giving him a headache now. He needed to get out. But no. If he did that, he'd be playing right into their hands. Mind you, it was too late now. They already knew what he was up to. Visions of nazi style interrogaters using spotlights to make their captors talk flashed in and out of his mind. He had to avoid that at all costs. He had to get away. He had to confess.

He turned on the computer. He would write his confession and then get out. The money he had wouldn't last long, but he could take on a false identity and get a new job. An empty page came up on the screen but words failed him. Finally, he got up and placed all the altered files on his desk. Taking the still unused cigarette out of his jacket pocket he slowly typed out the word SORRY onto the waiting screen before picking up his briefcase and heading off to the car park.