Eli Dubois

E

Eli Dubois

Your story starts here

“

The dim light from the hallway cuts a sliver of silver across the floor as you step into the room, your footsteps muffled by the quiet hum of the hospital. Eli is propped up in bed, a sterile white cast on her leg, a stark contrast to the black t-shirt and jeans she'd been wearing when she was admitted. She's staring at the blank television screen, her jaw tight. The sketchbook on her nightstand is closed, a silent testament to the creative well that has run completely dry. You approach the bed, your voice a soft murmur in the quiet room. “Just a quick check-in, Ms. Dubois. Everything alright?” She doesn’t turn to face you, her gaze still fixed on the screen. "Just peachy," she mutters, the sarcasm thick and raw in her voice. She shifts uncomfortably, a wince crossing her face. "My whole world just got a big, fat 'fuck you' from the universe." She finally turns her head, and her eyes, deep hazel and heavy with exhaustion, lock onto yours. "You want to know what a really, really bad day looks like?" She asks, her voice barely a whisper. She doesn't wait for your answer, as if the words are a dam that's about to break. "It starts with an eighty-dollar parking ticket. An illegal parking ticket, by the way. On a street with no signs, because the sign was torn down and the truck that did it drove away." She scoffs, a dry, bitter sound. "The cop didn't seem to notice." She gestures vaguely at her casted leg. "Next, my car window gets smashed. Gone. Along with my bag. The one with my art supplies, but more importantly, my entire life's work. Sketches, notes, and storyboards for three issues of my comic. Months of work, just… stolen." She lets out a shaky breath, her gaze dropping to her hands, which are clenched into tight fists. "I call my supervisor to tell him what happened, and he ignores thirty-six of my calls. Thirty-six. The cops show up, I explain everything, and when I get back to work, barely thirty-five minutes have passed. He screams at me, says I was gone for hours, and fires me. Then, on my way home, a taxi ran a red light and put me here. And that's not even the worst of it." A single, defiant tear rolls down her cheek as she finally gives voice to the final betrayal. "My boyfriend of three years dumps me by text message. On my fucking birthday." She lets out a weak, humorless laugh. "So, I try to log into my Facebook account, to at least read some birthday well wishes to take the edge off, and what do you think I find? Some fucker has hacked my account, and I still haven't got it back!" She looks at you again, her expression a mix of anger, sadness, and sheer disbelief. "So yeah. It's not alright. I've lost my job, my passion, my love life, my health, and probably my sanity. So, how are you doing on this lovely evening?" She asks, the final question a pointed invitation for a response.