Carolyn Gregg: La Petite Mort

Copyright ©2007 by Carolyn Gregg

I want to die.

Bria held off on that thought and knocked again on the boss's door, but the lack of response from inside told her Angie had stepped out. A quick glance at her watch revealed it was almost half past two. Angie always took her lunch around eleven, which meant the woman had more going on this afternoon other than her usual BLT down at Cyril's Bar and Deli.

Sighing, she opened the door and entered. These new specs had to be delivered to Rassen Enterprises before five p.m. today. If Angie didn't make the deadline, she wouldn't be able to blame anyone but herself for the flub.

Bria snorted as she propped the disk against the woman's computer monitor. Oh, yeah. Let her say she couldn't find it this time!

Forget it, Bria, a little voice inside her head argued. If there's any way the woman can foist both her responsibilities and her subsequent fuck-ups on someone else, she will. And that someone is you, as you well know. She'll miss the deadline, like she has in the past, and will again in the future. And when she does, you'll become her whipping post all over again. Whipped, filleted, strung up, and left out to dry. Damn it.

I want to die.

That nagging little demon was back, riding inside her ear like an irritating fly that couldn't be shooed away. Every so often it would open its mouth and whisper sweet, demented nothings in her ear. Just recently-just as her life was seriously heading for hell in a hand basket-it had started a new, more morose litany.

I want to die.

Giving herself a mental shake, Bria turned to walk out of the office and return to her stuffy little cubicle when her eyes caught sight of a piece of paper sticking out of the woman's trash can. Normally, Angie's trash didn't interest her. All of the important papers, especially the ones that could prove to be damaging to Angie's reputation if ever she was dragged into court, those papers always went into the shredder. The little aluminum receptacle was relegated to unimportant items like empty coffee cups, used tissues… and this brown colored object that caught her eye. It was expensive-looking and covered with elaborate print, and definitely out of place in Angie's faux shabby chic office.

Pulling it out, Bria surreptitiously palmed the paper against her skirt and left the office. It wasn't until she was safely ensconced back in her private little domain that she lifted the heavy cardstock and read what she'd pilfered.

No, not pilfered. The woman had thrown it away, so obviously it was garbage to her, Bria argued with herself. The trashcan sat against the wall behind the desk. Bria had placed it there to make sure nothing else “fell” off Angie's desk and got accidentally thrown away, as the woman insisted in the past had happened whenever her work failed to appear on time. If the paper was in file thirteen, then it was because Angela Bergman deliberately put it there. So even if Angie caught her with it, there was no way Bria could be accused of theft… again.

You can't steal what's already been tossed out, and everyone knows what's one man's trash could be another man's treasure.

The trash in question was an invitation to a masquerade ball. And not any masquerade ball. The annual Midnight Fantasies Masquerade Ball.

Sitting back in her chair, Bria tried to absorb the implications. Angie Bergman threw away an invitation to what many considered to be the most exclusive, most sought-after, most prized event of the year? What was that woman smoking?

Midnight Fantasies was said to be “THE club to end all clubs". The fact that it was located on a privately owned island only enhanced its mystery. But those who had attended in the past often spoke of fulfilled fantasies, most of them the sexual kind. The paparazzi was forced to observe from the shore as the rich, the famous, and the well-connected were shuttled by ferry to the castle-like mansion located almost two miles off-shore. And that was only the social aspect of it. Monetarily, the event raised ungodly sums of millions for charity.

Bria stared at the card. Like many people, she read all the juicy news after every ball, which took place the last weekend of October. The guest list was kept as secret as the combination to the safe at Fort Knox. Why in the hell would Angie pass up this kind of opportunity? There was no doubt she'd thrown it away. There was a coffee stain streaking one corner, which Bria wiped away.

If the quality of the invite was any indication, no expense was spared for the event. Bria felt the texture of the paper, noting the barely perceptible watermark embossed on the back. More intriguing, though, was the simple phrase “explore your wildest fantasies” written in heavy black ink deeply embedded in the finely woven rag content.

Explore my wildest fantasies? How much simpler could it be?

I want to die .

Finding this invitation was almost as good as having her dreams come true. She was depressed enough and just desperate enough to take the chance.

Shit! There's not much time. The ball is Saturday night. That's the day after tomorrow. How am I going to find a costume in just two days?

She flipped the invitation over, searching for the RSVP. It wasn't on the card she held. Maybe it had been included in the original envelope. What if Angie hadn't answered it? Or if she had, would they let Bria in anyway? For that matter, should she even try to pass herself off as her boss?

The Ball was a noted charitable event. She had a little over thirty-eight thousand dollars in savings that she could immediately get to. Hopefully, it would be enough.

A noise outside her cubicle alerted her to the fact that Angie was back, and she wasn't in a good mood. Hastily, Bria stuffed the invitation into her purse before checking to see what the woman was complaining about now. But for the rest of the day, the paperback book size sheet of vellum was never far from Bria's mind.

By five that evening, she'd made up her mind to take the risk. To hell with the consequences. If they discovered she wasn't the person to whom the invitation had originally been sent, so what? After all, what could anyone do to her if she was already dead?

Torch lights illuminated the huge castle-like mansion where the ball was taking place. Bria stared at the multiple spires with their mullioned windows with a gnawing hunger that had nothing to do with the need for food. Tonight she would be granted her ultimate wish, her penultimate fantasy, and her nerves were so tightly strung, the synapses were singing in anticipation. Her skin was dry and damp at the same time. Her mouth felt like it was clogged with cotton balls.

It had taken her all day Friday and Saturday to figure out what to wear. After all, what did one wear to one's own death? And in the midst of a masquerade ball, at that?

Careful snooping and a few well-placed questions only revealed that just about anything would be acceptable in the form of a disguise. Which meant that a trip to a costume shop had been part of the agenda. Endless searching, and more than a dozen try-ons later, Bria had settled on a Grecian toga of sorts. The layers of material were diaphanous. Even after wrapping it around her, it was still almost completely see-through; but the store clerk assured Bria she had the figure to pull it off.

"Did you know Grecian women loved to drench themselves in water to highlight their attributes?” the woman grinned. “With your dark, naturally curly hair, you could be the spitting image of one of those models on their mosaics or urns. By the way,” the clerk added in a conspiratorial tone of voice, “be sure to go braless, but wear some little something down below so your thatch won't be so prominent."