Murdered With Love

5. In another life

Marc grabs the glass of whiskey and brings it to his lips. He can't help but arch a brow at his assistant, who was almost pleading at his desk.

Working as a boss in a model agency isn't an average job, and Marc knows it.

"Sir, the magazine wants to have the manuscript and design by next Thursday." His assistant, Mellion, says as he watches his boss carefully.

"And I said I can hand it to him personally on Saturday." Marc snaps, almost dropping the glass out of his hand.

Mellion shakes his head. "I'm afraid that he can not agree to that."

Marc places the glass carefully on his oakwood desk, making sure not to let it seem that he is pissed off. "Mellion." He just says, choosing his words wisely. "I have a wife and kids. I have better things to do than writing manuscripts or posing in front of a camera. If the boss says he wants it before Monday, I'll do it before Monday, I'm a hardworking man. Jezella just doesn't understand that I have a private life instead of only a job." He explains carefully.

Mellion nodded, looking down at his shoe. Marc couldn't quite see what he was thinking. "I'll make sure that I will tell Jezella." He spins around, out of his office. "Oh, and Sam is quiting, by the way. You need a model before the end of the month." And with that, he dissapears.

Marc wants to scream and yell. Everyone was constantly asking him this, asking him that, blah, blah, and all he could do was tell him that he would do it.

Sometimes, he wishes that he could just go back to his teenage years. Maya at his side, her smile, her laugh, her voice. He missed her so much that it felt like someone punched him in the stomach whenever he thought about her.

Maya Sevilla was like a drug to him. That girl could let him do things that he wouldn't do with a sober mind, but when he was around her, he was more himself than he would like to admit.

That was why recovering from her went bad.

In total, Marc had spent about four years in different mental institutions. They didn't know what to do with him. It took him six years to accept his grief, to give it a place in his heart.

And now, after almost eighteen years, he still can't accept her death.

He could remember when he first met his now wife: Della Gonzales. Marc was sitting in his chair after he attempted to slam his head against the wall until he knocked himself unconscious. Della was there, sitting in front of him. He could remember her expression: she was so incredibly scared of him.

Della cleared her throat. "I'm Della Gonzales. You're Marc Notion, right?" She had asked.

Marc nodded. "Indeed." His head hurted from the amount of bandages they had to use to stop the bleeding.

She nervously looked down to play with her clipboard. "I'm a student wanting to learn about the psychiatric institutions, and I'm planning on working here. Do you mind telling me why you're here?" Her voice was so soft and so calm.

He looked down at his arms. Whenever he thought, he looked at his arms where the thick and ugly scars ran across them. Somehow, it gave him comfort, reminding him wherever he was at that very moment: he was doing better than when he gave himself those scars. "I lost her." Was all he said.

Della could read his face very well because she said: "You tried to join her, didn't you?" She asked, carefully watching her words. "The love of your life."

"I tried, yeah." Marc said bitterly, looking up from his arms. "I've tried sixteen times. And I've failed all those times."

Della's face was full of horror for just a second before she whispered. "I'm so sorry."