You are searching about Where Can I Sell My Office Furniture In New York, today we will share with you article about Where Can I Sell My Office Furniture In New York was compiled and edited by our team from many sources on the internet. Hope this article on the topic Where Can I Sell My Office Furniture In New York is useful to you.
The Guardian Angel
She could call it “Marion’s Monday.” Every Monday for the past six years, she’d taken the house apart and put it back together, vacuumed the carpet, dusted the furniture, fluffed the pillows, polished the silver, and if it was the last of the month, she’d write the checks. for her myriad bills as she did today.
A scan revealed what might have been a furniture showroom: piles of rugs stood at attention and table tops gleamed. It was quiet outside, but not necessarily inside her. Fear like liquid ice strangely circulated through her veins. Neither the house nor her life would be the same by this time tomorrow, she somehow suspected.
Writing checks was easy, ever since my father’s inheritance at the beginning of the year. Money was no object for once.
As she wrote the date on one, it blurred, the memories in her mind pushed her out of the present and into the past.
Why didn’t I see that, she thought? It all added up. Sure, you’ve had to work late every night since you got that new bill, she said as her husband stood in the room. Of course, behind those business trips was your undying devotion to the company, and your new help—hah, woman, what a coincidence—just had to come with you.
Every time he lied to her, that strange, almost altered personality expression seemed to register on his face, as if he had two sides.
“Do you think I was born yesterday, Donald?” she screamed. What a fool I was!
Shaking and holding one hand with the other as she filled out the check, she thought, My God, I’m worth more to him dead than alive!
Another look into the living room and she realized with her sixth sense – no, just knew – that she only had 24 hours to live.
* * *
Phones can do more than ring: sometimes they rattle with emotion, as she did now, prompting her to get up from her chair and take off the receiver with one movement.
“Oh, God, it’s just you,” she said. “I thought he was my husband.
“This again?” said a voice. “I wish you would calm down. I don’t think your anxieties are based on any truth. You’re creating a reality in your head that just isn’t true. Everything will be fine. Stop worrying.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Marion said, forcefully controlling her pants. “Maybe you’re right. I…turn it into something it’s not. I…watch too much of that ‘CSI’ stuff on TV or something.”
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow. By the way, I finished the sculpture class I was taking and I wanted to show someone—you, actually—my final project.”
“Oh,” she said, refocusing on reality. “Yeah, the sculpture class. That – that would be nice. I’d like to see what you did.”
“Great,” he said. “So what about tomorrow? 1pm? Usual-Donovan’s?”
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
And when he said, “I’ll pick you up at 1:00 p.m.,” she stepped on his line and said, “I’ll meet you there at 1:00 p.m.”
“And one more thing,” said Marion. “What if I’m not?”
“What if you’re not what?” her friend said.
“I’m making all this up in my head—about my husband?”
“Marion, you have to have some faith. Everything will work out, I just know it. Someone is watching over you and making sure nothing happens to you.”
She wasn’t entirely convinced.
* * *
She had to act as if nothing was happening, as if her premonitions were baseless and irrational. But as she fell asleep next to her husband that night, another title flashed through her mind, Sleeping with the Enemy.
* * *
She kept looking at her watch, but her growing anxiety made it harder and harder to focus on its hands.
If I don’t get to the car now, she thought, I’ll never get to Donovan in time. But when she reached the front door, she realized she hadn’t taken her wallet from the bedroom and turned back.
That’s all I need, she thought, is to get pulled over by a cop and not have my ID on me. Maybe it was my premonitions all along.
But they quickly intensified again when she saw the taxi pull up outside her house – and her husband get out.
What is he doing here at this time of day and why didn’t he bring his own car, she wondered?
Twenty-four hours of life, she thought further. God, that’s it! I was right!
Immobilized by fear, she watched the door open as if she were a detached observer and saw the rope he was clutching in his hand. The orderly house, the glittering tables, the carpet without traces, all shattered in adrenaline trauma.
“Yes, Marion,” he said, taking deliberate steps towards her, using a monotone voice that made her blood run cold. “Just stand there. You know you can’t run. You never could.”
Terrified, she was caught in his projected energy, entwined with him.
“Oh no,” she tried to scream. “No! Please! I’ve been nice to you. I’ll do anything to end this amicably. I’m…”
He took three more steps. Her hazel eyes, fixed on him, became a reflection of his evil. Her silky black hair was matted with sweat.
“Yes, Marion,” he continued. “Look around this house. Not a speck of dust. You’ve always been so meticulous. Notice I said ‘were’.”
His voice was like a recording without emotion, without feeling or empathy. He was reduced to reality, the icy kind. His face reflected someone he wasn’t: his alter-personality. His sandy hair shone white. His stubble was like a thornbush, a dead plant from which all life had withered. The scar on his face looked like lightning.
“Yes, Marion,” he continued. “I’ve learned a lot from you over the years. I’m careful now, too. Notice I took a taxi instead of my own car, so no one saw him in the driveway at this time of day. time? Why, it’s 1:00 p.m. I always leave the office at 1pm to grab my lunch.
She could hardly focus on the image in front of her, gasping for breath and her heart pounding.
He took the last three steps towards her, wrapping the rope around her neck and tightening it with dripping composure.
“Are you waiting for a call, Marion? I couldn’t help you. I conveniently forgot my cell phone. I left it on the table. Print, print. I should be reprimanded for being so irresponsible. But there is a positive side to it.” everything: no cell phone tower pings in this area. That’s why I’m just not here. How smart is technology until you become smarter and learn to navigate it. Careful, Marion. It all comes down to diligence, like you. “
Her closed air passage no longer allowed her to feel or think.
“And these gloves, Marion? What do you think they protect me from? But poor Marion. Maybe you can’t connect the dots in your head now. Why, the answer is prints. There won’t be any.” And that rope,” he said, watching the life drain from her eyes, “leaves no bullets, no gunshots, no traces of me. What are you saying, Marion? You don’t seem to be speaking very clearly. You seem to be choking on something. What is it? Proof of purchase you say?” He laughed. “There isn’t one, I didn’t buy it, so how are they going to trace it to me? One of a kind? Ha ha, they sell this type of rope in every hardware store from Milwaukee to Miami.” “
As he tightened her, her face turned red and she gasped for air for the last time and lost consciousness.
“Do me one last favor, Marion,” he continued. “When you get to heaven, I want you to thank your father for me. Thank him for his gift—his money—to me. I’ll gladly spend every penny. I promise . . .”
As she rolled her eyes and the room spun around her, she had just enough oxygen left to hear the sound of a car in the driveway.
He heard a gasp for air and felt the same waves of fear that somehow carried through the phone lines yesterday, he smashed the front window with his ten pound statue, shot through it and drove it into the head of Marion’s husband. if it was an impacting meteor that would create a crack that opened into the crater.
And it was he, not her, who fell to the floor and caused a stream of blood to mar the perfectly vacuumed carpet.
* * *
The exterior scene said everything about the interior: rotating lights on police cars, ambulances, stretchers.
“No,” Marion said, almost begging the burly officer in front of her. “My husband. He tried to kill me. Not to arrest the man. He was just trying to protect me. He saved my life.”
“And who is it?” asked the officer.
“His name is Angel. We’re going back to high school. He was right. Someone was watching over me. And it was him all along, Angel. My guardian angel.”
Video about Where Can I Sell My Office Furniture In New York
You can see more content about Where Can I Sell My Office Furniture In New York on our youtube channel: Click Here
Question about Where Can I Sell My Office Furniture In New York
If you have any questions about Where Can I Sell My Office Furniture In New York, please let us know, all your questions or suggestions will help us improve in the following articles!
The article Where Can I Sell My Office Furniture In New York was compiled by me and my team from many sources. If you find the article Where Can I Sell My Office Furniture In New York helpful to you, please support the team Like or Share!
Rate Articles Where Can I Sell My Office Furniture In New York
Rate: 4-5 stars
Search keywords Where Can I Sell My Office Furniture In New York
Where Can I Sell My Office Furniture In New York
way Where Can I Sell My Office Furniture In New York
tutorial Where Can I Sell My Office Furniture In New York
Where Can I Sell My Office Furniture In New York free