Short story from writing prompt - You did what, where?

It's been a long time since I wrote from prompts but I'm remembering just how much I love it and why it's an essential practice for writers. I snagged a specular list of prompts from Nerd Knows Life. Join me as I work from a prompt to bring you a short story I call, "You did what, where?"

Writing Prompt: Your character is trending on social media for an awful reason.

It's funny how life can change literally overnight. This isn't the first time it's happened, for me, and it isn't the most tragic, but it certainly is the most public.

The office has been ringing my phone all morning. Emails are piling up in an already overstuffed inbox. I've been forced to turn off my text message notifications. It won't end, no matter how long I choose to ignore it. I know this. Yet, I curl myself in a ball under my covers and try to wish it all away.

I didn't ask for this. I didn't want the 'fame' to begin with. But once it arrived, I felt obliged to do something good with it. Who knew those good intentions would lead me to hide under my sheets like a child at forty years old? What's that saying about the road to hell?

A gentle knock at my door announces the arrival of my assistant. Can someone remind me why I thought it was a good idea to give him a key?

I moan and crunch the sheets up around my head. I do not want to talk. I do not want to be seen.

"I brought coffee," he sings through the door in an annoying way that makes him always sound so damn happy to be alive.

I do not want to talk. I do not want to be seen. But I do want caffeine. Oh, the conundrums of life.

I let out a sigh and he takes it as his sign. He really does know me well. I truly am lucky to have him. But one wrong step and he might take on the brunt of this morning's shame which I have delicately dressed as anger.

I'm still beneath the covers and he fumbles a coffee through the piles of 1000 thread count. Egyptian cotton. A gift to myself when I won my place in office two years ago.

Who knew I'd need them so much?

They wrap me in comfort and cradle me like the baby I've been these past 12 hours.

The coffee comes into view inside my makeshift fort. Seth lets his hand linger for a moment, as though I may grab it and hold it, crawl out of my hole and cry on his shoulder. He's aways telling me to get in touch with my emotions. I'm always telling him to get in touch with the back of my hand. I'd laugh at that thought if I wasn't so upset.

It proves difficult to sip my coffee under twenty pounds of bedding. Go figure.

Begrudgingly, I push the blankets away and reveal myself to a room that feels just as dreary as my soul. Except for Seth. Seth looks happy and strikingly out of place.

And also like I want to hit him. Just a little bit.

"It's not that bad," he says, avoiding eye contact as he struggles to keep that goofy smile on his face. His lips are perfectly lined. His brows freshly waxed. I feel juxtaposed to his beauty as I sit in my crumpled pyjamas with yesterday's makeup smeared across my cheeks. Our roles are all wrong. He should be in the spotlight. I should be the assistant.

"It is that bad," I correct him.

I know he knows I'm right.

"It'll blow over," he assures me.

He may be right. But how long will that take and how much damage will I sustain in the process?

I grumble something that even I don't understand, then proceed to knock back most of my coffee in one shot. Have I mentioned that I'm tired?

My night was a blur of social media posts - one after another - an endless scroll of my own humiliation. How had I let things get so out of hand? Who will take me seriously, now? I sure as hell wouldn't.

Panic swells inside me, now. I feel it's grip on my lungs, its electric drum beat in my chest. Seth can sense it, too. I must be sweating or sporting the beaty eyes of someone in distress.

"Pull yourself together!" he orders.

I look up at him with wounded eyes, mentally begging him to feel sorry for me; to curl up in my bed with me and watch old movies as I try to wish the world away.

But Seth is having no part in my little game of self-pity. Before I can protest, he is up, across the room, and ripping open my drapes. Sunlight slaps me across the face. I pull up an arm to shield my eyes. Has it always been that bright? I suspect that the sun is plotting against me. It seems everyone is.

Let me take you back in time - to a simpler time. Twenty-four whole hours ago. I'm tempted to throw some Shakespeare in here: "It was the best of times. It was the worst of times..." but it was about to get worse.

"No, I'm going," my voice was stern and Seth knew better than to keep pushing. "They're only in the country for three days and I refuse not to see my own brother. It's been four years, Seth."

He wasn't arguing. And yet, I was justifying. They say hindsight is 20:20, but foresight can be just as clear if we pull our heads out of our asses long enough to look around.

Jerry chose a quiet restaurant just outside of town. I was grateful that he took such care. It can't be easy having a politician for a sister when you're in his line of work.

I didn't expect the flood of emotions as he took his seat across from me. Late - as usual. Before we even spoke, I found myself ordering a drink. It was eleven in the morning.

Jerry joined in. No surprise.

I truly thought I'd feel nothing. "Treat it like a business meeting," I told myself. Afterall, I've come to be known for my emotionless, cutthroat approach.

But there he was with his pointy little face, carrying every memory of the person and life I worked so hard to forget.

I slammed back my drink before so much as a "hello" and excused myself to the bathroom.

"You got this," I encouraged myself in the bathroom mirror. The tension in my shoulders told me otherwise. "It was a long time ago. You're not that person, anymore. Do not let him make you feel small."

My growing confidence wavered as I realized I hadn't checked the stalls. Anyone could be listening. Of course, they were not. The stalls were empty. I was alone. As I had been most of my life - in one way or another.

But I was right to be cautious. My place in office wasn't important enough to garner much publicity, but my history of landing a plane and avoiding a crash sure was. The media mate it out to be a whole mot more impressive than it really was.

Flight attendant saves hundreds, the headlines read.

It was 138 people, including myself. And all I did was follow instructions from the tower. Autopilot did most of the work.

But there it was, anyway. My face splayed over every major news station and circling the internet as motivational memes.

Oh, the good old days - when I was known as a hero, instead of a laughing stock.

I poured back another shot on the way to my table. The genius who place the bar beside the restroom deserved a kiss, that day.

"I need some money," Jerry said as I returned.

Remember, we still haven't said, "hello." Some things never change.

Another round of drinks made its way to the table alongside a greasy basket of fries. I let the alcohol soothe my thoughts as I settled in for Jerry's pitch. I'll skip feeling hurt that he hasn't asked me how I am or appologized for never returning my calls. Why waste the energy?

A half an hours went by and Jerry spent its entirety trying to convince me to invest in a "local business" without divulging any details. I heard all about how it's an "opportunity of a lifetime" and supports a "guaranteed customer base." I waited for the price tag.

"How much do you want?" I asked, bluntly. It's a routine I'd grown accustomed to. Ever since my big settlement from the airline, my bank account has had a revolving door reserved specifically for my three brothers.

My memory starts to get fuzzy around this point. My emotions were dulled, but so was the my thinking. Somewhere along the way, I agreed to check out his new opportunity.

"You gotta see the place to understand."

It's amazing that he almost made sense to me after a few drinks.

I wish I could tell you what happened next. I wish I could explain why I accompanied my dirtbag brother to a strip club as the lunch buffet was served. I wish I could say that I hadn't actually dared to eat from that buffet.

I want to blame Jerry. I want to blame the alcohol. I want to justify my actions as results of a traumatic past and a series of triggers that led me to behaviours of a lifestyle I chose to leave behind when I got on my first place and flew away from my family.

Oh, I wish I could tell you what happened next. I wish I could tell you how I awoke, this morning, in a bed with a stripper who's name I do not know (or why I thought it decent to kick her out before asking for that name).

Mostly, I wish I could tell you how a slew of drunken, half-naked, sometimes upside down, hanging from a stripper pole pictures of my made their way to the internet.

"Fucking Jerry," I mutter to myself a I scroll through the endless stream of memes. Whoever invented the concept of tagging people in your posts deserves their own public shaming. I literally cannot figure out how to escape this.

Seth has read my thoughts, again.

"Put down the phone."

He knows I won't, so he forcibly removes it from my grip.

"It'll blow over," he assures me.

Blow. Shit.

A memory flashes through my mind. I haven't seen them, but I instantly know there are pictures of me doing cocaine off the back of a toilet.

I pull the covers over my head as Seth's phone begins to ring. He hits ignore and tries to tug the duvet from my grip.

It rings, again.

Ignore.

Again.

Ignore.

Again.

I whip the covers from my face. There will be no peace, today.

"Just answer it!" I snap at him.

I don't need to hear what's said on the other end of the line. I don't even need to know whose voice speaks into Seth's ear. I know exactly what is happening.

I'm being asked to step down.