It was the most beautiful fuck up anyone in the company had ever seen in its 15 year history. Beautiful that is, to the people who enjoyed watching the fall of Peyton Thorne; the perpetrator of this colossal screw up.
Oscar, her boss, had been yelling at her for about thirty minutes. His minions, Heather and Rachel, sat stoically by their leader, shaking their heads and looking thoroughly disappointed at the appropriate times.
“Your bone headed mistake will cost me hundreds of thousands of dollars!” He screamed. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?! Spittle flew from his mouth and landed on the desk in front of Peyton, she was transfixed by it. “Well?!” Oscar demanded.
She looked up at her boss and mentor, and he was shocked to see that Peyton was as angry as he was. She devoted every day of the last 5 years to this company, and now, one mistake, granted an expensive one, was going to cost Peyton her job. She said nothing, but inside Peyton was thinking, ‘You’ll be sorry Oscar.’
Her termination was immediate. Peyton fumed inside as the whole staff watched her pack the mostly useless items from her desk, and walk out, humiliated. Some were amused by the golden girl’s fall from grace, others simply wanted to know who would inherit her spacious office.
Word had spread throughout the industry that Peyton Thorne was damaged goods, and no other firm in town would even grant her an interview.
That’s why a few weeks later, Peyton stood on the railing of the Morrison Bridge at 3 am, with a bottle of Jim Beam. She let out a somber laugh and said, “Jumping seems like as good a plan as any.”
“Does it?” A voice said from behind, startling Peyton who whirled around and almost fell into the water below.
There, on the other side of the bridge stood a very old, and very short man wearing an old fashioned bowler hat.
“Peyton Emerson Thorne” He said, sounding like a father scolding his child. “Get down you silly girl, you know you’re far too much of a narcissist to kill yourself.”
The strange little man was right, she had no intention of committing suicide that night, or any other night. So Peyton threw the empty bottle into the water below, and stepped off the railing.
“I am Edgar Poggit, madam, at your service.” He removed his hat and bowed down in one exaggerated motion.
“How do you know me, Edgar Poggit?” Peyton was still a bit tipsy.
“Oh, I’ve been watching you for a while my dear.”
Then he came across the bridge so swiftly, that Peyton didn’t even see his legs move. He was several feet away, then suddenly he was standing right in front of her.
Then Edgar Poggit pulled a mirror out of his pocket, “Wanna have a looksee, and get a gander at the real you?” He grinned.
Now stone sober, Peyton backed away, convinced this odd man’s claims were true, but also certain that she did not want to look in that mirror.
“Are you the devil?”
He laughed, Peyton didn’t care for his laugh. “Oh no, Miss Thorne, not the devil. I am what you might call a facilitator. Someone who helps people remove those pesky difficulties from their lives. He smiled, she didn’t care for his smile either.
Peyton was still leery of Edgar Poggit, but she was intrigued as well. “What will your mirror show me?” she asked.
With lightning speed, Mr. Poggit bridged the gap Peyton had put between them, and placed the mirror in her hands.
“Look in the mirror Miss Thorne, it will solve all of your problems.”
Peyton hesitated, but in that instant, the spry old man touched the mirror, and a collage of images that were her life, flashed across the smooth glass.
At the same time, Edgar Poggit’s voice thundered in her ears. “Oscar took away your livelihood, because of one little mistake.” He boomed. “Dragged your name through the mud so badly, you can’t even find work in this town. You sacrificed so much for him, and he threw you away like a piece of trash. For weeks your resentment has been building, let it out Miss Thorne! I can help facilitate your desire for revenge.”
Edgar Poggit’s voice was relentless, Peyton closed her eyes tightly and yelled. “Stop!”
When she opened them, it was morning, and Peyton was in her apartment, in bed.
‘Thank goodness it was all a nightmare.’ She said.
Just then, the doorbell rang, it was Heather and Rachel, standing there dressed in matching black skirts and white shirts, like the freaking double mint twins. “Where is he?” They asked in unison.
She looked at them dumfounded, “Where’s who?”
“Oscar. He was on his way to see you a few hours ago. He said you called, and wanted to talk. The police phoned the office and said his car was abandoned on the Morrison Bridge, but there was no trace of Oscar.”
Peyton didn’t make that call, but she knew who did.
“I don’t know where he is.” she said, absentmindedly. Before they could respond, Peyton closed door on Heather and Rachel’s protestations. She turned around, and wasn’t surprised to see Edgar Poggit sitting on her couch, with that frightening smile on his face.
“I didn’t want Oscar dead.” She said.
“Oh no, of course you didn’t Miss Thorne, I am a facilitator, not a murderer. You did however want Oscar gone, which he is, but don’t worry, I’ll take good care of him.”
Seeing Peyton’s confusion, Edgar Poggit produced the mirror once again. This time, instead of seeing snippets of her life, Peyton saw the terrified face of Oscar, silently screaming, and somehow trapped inside the mirror. What was even more horrifying was that Oscar could see Peyton, and their eyes locked as he mouthed the words, “Help me Peyton, please, help me.”