The glow of the plasma television flickered in the pools of my eyes. The room was dark, and the sound was muted. I watched as the news reporters told me what I already knew. Robert Moore, CEO and Founder of Moore Corporations, was pronounced dead.
To the rest of the world, Robert Moore was a multi-billionaire who owned one of the largest entrepreneurial corporations in the world. To me, he was just Dad.
For as long as I could remember, it had just been Dad and me. My mother died in a car accident before I could walk, so my father had to raise me entirely on his own. And although most high ranking business men become consumed by their work, my father always made sure he had time for me.
I was Daddy's Little Girl. He was my best friend, and I was his. Now, he was gone. A heart-attack had taken the most important person in my life and I was never getting him back.
I would have given up everything I had to get him back. But even all the money and riches in the world can't resurrect the dead.
And so, I became frustrated, lost, and angry. A deep, dark depression came over me as I left the hospital where he passed last night. As soon as I got back to our New York City penthouse flat, I crawled into his office, snagged his favorite aged whiskey, and drank until the pain in my chest went away.
Now, the morning after, I was still angry, still in pain, and still alone.
What was going to happen now? How was my life going to change? How was I going to live without him in my life?
I contemplated these questions as I hung over the toilet seat. The strong alcohol I had consumed and the sickening reality of my life caused me to regurgitate over and over again.
I finally pulled myself together when my blackberry rang. Ever since word had gotten out about my father, I had been screening my calls. I wasn't in the mood to deal with their pity. I could hear them all saying "aw you poor little rich girl." At this point, after wasting my morning with news channels and toilet seats, I was too mentally and physically exhausted to give a shit anymore.
"Hullo?" I breathed into the mouthpiece, wiping my mouth.
"Hi, is this Samantha Lillian Moore?"
There was nothing more in this world that I hated more than my full name. It sounded like some low class, imitation furniture store. That's why everybody who knew me only referred to me as Sammy.
"This is she," I groaned, burping slightly under my breath. "Who's asking?"
"My name is Tina Woods. I've been assigned to be your social worker through all of this."
I sat up, and scratched my scalp. "I didn't ask for one . . . and I don't need one."
"Samantha, I know this is a very hard time for you," she replied, in a calm, sympathetic voice that made me roll my eyes. "But I can help you if you let me. If you let us."
I shook my head. This was not happening. I didn't need anybody but my dad.
"Exactly who is us?"
"Well, me, of course, and your hired legal aid, Jim Caulfield," she crackled into the phone.
"Okay, let me set this straight with you, Tina," I sneered, emphasizing on her name. "Are you listening, Tina?"
She paused, then answered in a delicate tone. "Yes."
"I don't need your help. What I need is a mud bath, a deep tissue massage, and a sea weed facial. Now, seeing as you are not qualified for either of those services, I suggest that you leave me the hell alone," I firmly snapped. "Thank you and goodbye."
