One Existential Fear They Have

Since they found themselves in the void, they feel the creeping approach of death wash over them.

One Psychological Fear They Have

They fear the impact of their decisions weighing heavily upon them, particularly after helping a very evil man escape a prison sentence.

One Social Fear They Have

They are extremely socially awkward. Their work is their life, and they don't have ti,e for much else.

Draft:

I was adrift in a fog of confusion, lost in a shadowy void. My mind resembled a blank canvas. The only certainty? A biting cold that gnawed at my skin, sending icy tendrils into my bones. It was like fierce gusts pummelling me, igniting anger and frustration in the chill.

As I scanned my surroundings, an inky blackness greeted my gaze. No sky stretched above, no walls whispered confinement, and no roof sheltered me. The darkness enveloped me; I couldn’t even discern my own hand before me. I was ensnared in a boundless abyss, an endless expanse that devoured time and space like a ravenous beast.

When I attempted to move, a chilling revelation struck: I was utterly immobilised. My limbs lay ensnared by invisible chains, every muscle screaming in agony, taut with tension. Shifting my weight felt impossible, let alone taking a step. Terror gripped me—what if the freezing air had claimed my manhood, as my frantic mind feared?

The only lifeline was a frail memory of who I once was. Yet to grasp it, I had to navigate back to a time where purpose still flickered. A time when life pulsed with meaning instead of trapping me in this endless, frozen limbo.

Allow me to introduce myself: I’m Richard Langros, but most know me as Dick. For over twenty years, I’ve danced through the tangled vines of the justice system. My role? To defend those labelled as accused or suspected, often bearing the weight of public disdain. Far too frequently, I hear my clients referred to as “the innocent,” a title I've come to loathe. Innocence feels like a charming fairy tale, one we abandon by age five, when life’s realities begin weighing us down.

Let’s face it: none of us are perfect, and we are all guilty of something. Whether it’s picking on the odd one out for acceptance or accepting a morally grey job to make rent, we’ve all skirted our values at some point. Each small compromise chips away at our integrity, leading us into guilt's murky waters. To think innocence reigns in the justice system is pure folly. My mission isn't to prove my clients’ innocence; it's to sprinkle doubt like confetti in a jury’s mind.

Over the years, I’ve become a maestro in the symphony of doubt. My latest case was a true masterpiece. I crafted a defence for Dan Stevens, a man notorious for his unscrupulous escapades. An executive at a high-flying film studio, he boasted more misconduct allegations than a scandal sheet. Yet, I embraced the challenge; I’m the best in the business.

Stevens stood accused of his wife’s murder, with the public clamouring for retribution. But I knew the courtroom’s secret: it’s not about guilt or innocence; it’s about cultivating uncertainty. I put in the hours, weaving a tapestry of doubt, making the jury second-guess the evidence presented. And in a twist worthy of the silver screen, I secured Stevens’ release—not because I believed in his innocence, but because I’m a master of my craft.

The first time I crossed paths with Dan, an eerie spark ignited. It felt like meeting a comet destined to shine brightly. As I delved deeper into his world, ambition danced on his lips. You see, Dan harbours a towering dream: to claim the highest seat in the land – the presidency of the United States. A staggering revelation, akin to learning your new mate wants to take over the universe.

His handshake was disarming, paired with a smile that melted doubt away. Rumours whispered that this charm swayed many, sometimes without rightful consent. When he introduced himself, it wasn’t formal; he simply said, “Dan,” building an instant camaraderie.

We chatted about films, music, and the weather, tossing around pleasantries like confetti at a party. Then, with a warm grin, he gestured for me to his opulent office. It was furnished lavishly, with pieces that could have purchased my car with ease. Behind his desk, with a view of Venice Beach that took my breath away, he poured us each a glass of rare, top-shelf whisky – a sip reserved for the elite.

“So, what are my chances?” he asked, as casually as commenting on the weather—innocuous yet unsettling. The question lingered in the air like a dare, sparking my curiosity. How could he remain so unfazed, so detached, while discussing his wife’s untimely demise? It was as if he wore the mask of a victim, not a suspect.

I scrutinised his face, hunting for any flicker of remorse, but found only a façade of apathy. A deep breath steadied my nerves, preparing me for the world of cold calculation he inhabited. 

With renewed resolve, I crossed my arms, leaning back in my chair. “Your chances? High. The prosecution’s case is as flimsy as wet tissue paper. They lack concrete evidence linking you to the crime—no body, no proof, nada. You’re merely before a judge due to your reputation and the litany of whispers from the townsfolk.”

I paused, allowing the weight of my words to settle in. “It’s not about your actions; it’s about the shadow of doubt. It’s the perception of what you might be capable of.”

Dan's hands met in a slow, measured clap, the sound resonating through the space. “Brilliant,” he declared, a touch of urgency seeping into his words. “If you can extricate me from this predicament smoothly, I’ll be sipping Mai Tais on Waikiki Beach before you can say ‘aloha’. And of course, your talents won’t go unnoticed. I've caught wind from various sources that you’re the pinnacle of your craft, and I wholeheartedly believe in rewarding excellence. After all, a professional like you deserves nothing but the crème de la crème – and that’s precisely what I'm prepared to offer for a job superbly done.”

I set off that day with a churning stomach, the thought of aiding a despicable character twisting my insides. When the day of Dan's court appearance arrived, my disdain for him lingered. His every gesture reeked of deceit, from the calculating glint in his eye to the oily tone oozing from each word. Yet, despite my misgivings, my confidence in the case remained unshaken. I was certain I could win an acquittal, but I began to grapple with whether I should—not just whether I could. Was it morally acceptable to let someone like Dan slip through the cracks of justice?

I arrived at the courthouse before dawn’s first light pierced the gloom. The morning chill clung to the stone walls like stubborn fog. As I stepped inside, the remnants of a courtroom drama lingered in the air. A woman sat on the witness stand, her eyes swollen from tears, shaken and fragile. She recounted haunting horrors that clung to her every breath. The defendant’s attorney leaned in, his whispered words slicing through the tension, inducing a shiver down my spine. Her fear wrapped around me, stirring reflections on my own choices—past and future.

At noon, the court convened, with the same formidable judge presiding. A statuesque figure, he towered with short grey hair, demanding respect in silence. As we waited, Dan made a dramatic entrance, accompanied by a sea of officers. Reporters clamoured for soundbites, their voices blending into chaos. Yet his smile remained cemented, a façade that felt almost second nature. The flask of whiskey nestled on my person was a secret comfort. When he finally grasped my hand, his icy touch reminded me of the emotional void enveloping me.

I’m counting on you; don’t let me down. His frosty tone dripped with determination, sending chills down my spine like winter’s breath. In my line of work, I’ve danced with danger daily. I've braved the bitter winds of ire from spurned husbands, faced storms of wrath from furious parents, and witnessed tearful pleas from desperate children. Yet, none have rattled me quite like Dan Stevens did then. His challenge hung thick in the air, a shadow of expectation pressing down on me. The weight of his words made my skin crawl, stoking the flames of unease. His calm demeanor only deepened the dread, hinting he was a man relentless in the pursuit of his desires.

Court proceedings kicked off with a bang as Dan arrived. By the time we broke for dinner, the real spectacle had begun. My mission? To persuade a crowded chamber that a heartless figure wasn’t as cruel as everyone believed. My strategy was as clear as crystal: elevate someone else's wickedness.

Dan's ex-wife, blissfully unknown to the jury and judge, became my pawn. I crafted a vivid tapestry of a woman so villainous that by my finale, the jury seemed almost grateful she had shuffled off this mortal coil. She was a queen of wealth, hailing from a family that elevated money and status above all else.

I recounted tales of her relentless cruelties, nagging "Good" Mr Stevens with her sharp tongue. I painted a picture of her threats and assaults whenever he sought solace in other arms. I laid bare her disdain, mistreating staff simply for doing their jobs. Then, I revealed her final act of treachery: she pilfered from Mr Stevens and vanished from the face of the earth.

As I wrapped up, I noticed tears glistening in the eyes of jurors. A wave of pride rushed through me, especially when the venerable judge pronounced Dan innocent. Mr Stevens clapped me on the back, shaking my hand like a lifelong ally. With the session adjourned, Dan stepped out into freedom.

Later, at his house, reality hit me like a freight train. I encountered the true Mr Stevens for the first – and final – time.

Mr Stevens broke from our usual routine, a twist in the tale. He didn't offer a hand as I stepped into his office. Instead, he perched behind a mighty oak desk, a large silver briefcase sprawled open like a treasure chest. Gone was the warm smile I cherished; replaced by a stern glare that pierced through me like icy winds on a winter's day.

“I believe in rewarding hard work, Richard,” he said, his voice steady as a rock. “You've done an outstanding job. You deserve every penny of this.”

As he unfolded the briefcase, stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills emerged like hidden gems. My legs wobbled, and I sank into the worn leather chair, heart racing. The money on display was staggering—more than I had ever encountered. I stared, wide-eyed, as if beholding a mirage in the desert.

Mr Stevens' brow furrowed, tension flooding his features as he misread my amazement. “What's wrong, Dick? Is the sum not satisfactory?” His tone held an undercurrent of concern.

I shook my head, still grappling with the weight of those dollars. “No, sir, it's just... I've never seen that much money before,” I stammered, my voice barely a whisper.

In an instant, Mr Stevens’ face lit up, a mischievous glimmer igniting in his eye. “It's all yours, Richie,” he murmured, conspiratorial and enticing. “What do you plan to do with it?”

His question hit me like a thunderbolt, leaving me speechless and flustered. The idea of such a staggering sum of money was dizzying. What on earth would I do with it? Possibilities raced through my mind like a wild rollercoaster, yet I couldn't latch onto a single clear thought. 

I... I haven't really thought about it," I stammered, my cheeks aflame with the embarrassment of my unpreparedness.

Mr. Stevens rose from his chair, each deliberate motion capturing my attention. As he glided to stand behind me, his hands landed on my shoulders—firm yet gentle. His soft whisper curled around my ear, sending a shiver skittering down my spine. "Might I suggest Hawaii? The weather's simply exquisite this time of year. When you return, how about working for me?"

I couldn't believe my ears. This man, someone I'd every reason to despise, was offering me a job? The audacity took my breath away. Could I dare to refuse him? My heart raced at the thought of his wrath.

With a sense of dread pooling in my stomach, I extended my hand, sealing our unexpected deal with a resolute handshake. As I exited his office, suitcase in hand, I couldn't shake the feeling I had stepped into a Faustian bargain—trading my soul for a tantalising opportunity. Even the devil himself couldn't have concocted a more audacious proposition.

I stand frozen, trapped in a never-ending loop of limbo. My last memory? The well-worn routine of departing Mr Stevens' office, hailing my usual taxi, driven by someone whose rich culture added flair to the mundane - nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But that’s where ordinary took a sharp detour. The taxi never crossed the finish line; a catastrophic collision with a truck changed everything. Now, I’m left wrestling with haunting existential questions. Is this hell, a fiery pit of eternal anguish? Did I meet my end, and is this my afterlife's cruel joke? Or, perhaps this is purgatory, a waiting lounge where souls are refined before they soar to their final resting place. Am I being punished for liberating the wicked from their cages, or for unleashing the most sinister one of all? The weight of these moral quandaries bears down like a heavy cloak. Will I ever escape this desolate purgatory, or will it grip me forever, a chilling memo of my misdeeds? What unspeakable horrors lie in wait for me in this eerie, timeless void?