Free The Story of Her Holding an Orange by Milos Bogetic Page A

better than getting a good job was getting a good job far away from Provincetown. The company was offering me a position in Atlanta, Georgia, more than 1,000 miles away from all this horror. 
    I probably broke some sort of record for accepting a job offer. I didn’t even let the recruiter finish her presentation. I took the job, and I told them I was coming in two days.
    For the first time in weeks, Trish and I were happy. Not only was I about to start a professional career (until this damn book gets made into a Hollywood blockbuster), but Trish and I were also getting the hell out of Massachusetts, where Rose and the man seemed to dwell. 
    While we were packing our bags, we discussed all the great things about our upcoming stress-free life. Nowhere in our plans did we mention a demonic, orange-carrying woman in a white dress. We rented a car, filled it with all of our belongings, and went down to the sweet south where we would only find oranges in grocery stores.
    The actual trip, while long, was a hell of a lot of fun. We’d eat at different restaurants, sleep in cool hotels, you know, the good-old road trip kind of thing. When we finally arrived in Atlanta, we were exhausted but excited at the prospect of our new life. Trish’s brother and his family live in that city, so we stayed with them until we were able to find a fitting apartment. We managed to find an amazing one bedroom flat that had everything we needed. Watching Trish sign the lease made me giggle like a little kid; she seemed so happy that, if a stranger would’ve looked at her, they would have never guessed she went through hell so recently. 
    Then came the time to move in. We only had about six suitcases worth of stuff, so we decided that I would carry them upstairs while Trish went shopping for basic supplies and groceries. The suitcases were in the building’s lobby, and our apartment was on the first floor. I brought in the first two bags and left the door open so I didn’t have to unlock it again. During the second trip up the stairs, one of the bags opened and a few of my things fell out. Tired and frustrated, I cursed and gathered all of my stuff and dragged the suitcases into the apartment. One more trip and I would be done. I brought the last two bags into the living room, took off my shoes, and grabbed a can of Coke. After the first sip, I dropped it.
    In the middle of our naked, unfurnished floor sat an orange. Time froze around me, and the only two things that made it into my brain were the foaming noise of spilled soda and a fucking orange in the center of my living room. You know how, when you’re in a plane that’s taking off, your ears get clogged and you have to move your jaw to fix them? That’s what happened. It seemed like everything around me blurred out and my whole focus was on that goddamn piece of fruit. Then the spilled Coke made it to my feet and threw me back into the reality. 
    Rose.
    I turned around and right there, at the entrance of the apartment, stood Rose and the man in the black suit. If I were better at artistic descriptions, I would be able to portray that whole scene better.
    I was standing in my socks that were now soaked with soda. Behind me, on the floor, was an orange and in front of me, the two people who stalked Trish, my grandmother, and me for our whole lives. They looked happy and confident.
     Rose wore the same white dress and her skin was as pale as ever. Her head was tilted to the left and her arms were just dangling at her sides. There was one thing different about her, though; she didn’t have any lipstick on, although her grin was still there. I suppose that, if you saw her on the street and you had no prior knowledge of her, you’d think nothing of her. Behind Rose stood a man in the black suit, the same man from the bike trail. He looked old and strict. His pupils were contracted to near-pinpoints, but his eyes still gave the impression of depth. On his head was an old-school top hat, and