Note: Nothing in this version is italicized because of the author's (my) laziness. Therefore, there will be no emphasis on words in dailogue or a clear distinction of thoughts of characters.

~Prologue~ The Value of Words

Misery: an unhappy state of mind.

There was a mundane, stifling atmosphere in the Campbell & Lipton Law Firm. Everything about the law office was nothing but mundane. In general, everything in the office was opulent and extravagant, yet efficient and organized. Every floor was tiled with the ugliest pale-blue color. The ceiling had elegant lamps dangling from them on golden chains. Everything made of wood in the office matched the oak paneled walls, and the cylindrical columns and the glass doors and windows made the firm seem contemporary. Like a stereotypical office, the firm was mostly corridors and offices.
The ten break rooms were mundane, all of them as alike as the next. There was a counter with a coffee maker, a microwave, a sink, and a fridge and freezer. A lingering, overpowering smell of coffee always emanated from the break rooms; no amount of air freshener would ever get rid of the sweet stench. There was a four-bladed ceiling fan, just one like every other room in the office.
Every office was unjustly alike as well. A desk, a window with vertical blinds, the standard-issued four-bladed ceiling fan, a bookcase. There were filling cabinets, like in any office, and a plant in the corner to get the little sunlight it could. There was even a comfy couch and a television in each office. Like all the other rooms in the office, it was well lit.
Every conference room, Rooms One through Twelve, was the same. There was a large window with and panoramic city view and vertical blinds. A potted plant was in each of the corners. A large, oval-shaped oak table was in the center of the room with plush black leather chairs around it.
The lobby was a basic waiting room with a basic receptionist desk. There were comfortable chairs in a square formation around a huge glass table. Of course, there were different assorted magazines scattered on the table. The name of the firm --Campbell & Lipton-- was on a huge sign in big bold letters behind the receptionist’s desk.
The courtroom I was in was just like every other one. Actually, they all bore an uncanny and striking resemblance to the courtrooms seen on Boston Legal. There was the seal of the District of New Jersey and “In God We Trust” engraved in the wall behind bar and the judge’s seat. There was also the State of New Jersey and American flags on each side of the judge‘s chair. There were only nine small ceiling fans, which never relieved any heat. The floors was a beige color and reflected the lights from the ceiling lights. Through rain, snow, and shine, those courtrooms were blistering hot.
I stood up and began to give my closing statement to the jury. Before I opened my mouth, I turned to the spectators. Among them was my colleague, Clara Rockwell. Her blonde hair was neatly tied into a bun. Her hazel eyes glinted with confidence through her glasses, as if to tell me to do my best.

Clara walked in almost instantaneously. It was too quick to be a coincidence since she had her hands behind her back. She loudly cleared her throat to obtain my attention. I shifted a huge pile of papers I’ve already signed to the side of my desk.
“Although the human body is chemically composed of elements that, in everyday life, are highly combustible, spontaneous human combustion is technically impossible.” I looked up at her and smiled. “It’s merely a myth.”
“Why are you talking about exploding people?” Clara asked me. She bit her bottom lip to fight the urge to laugh. “Why can’t you just talk about things normal people have an interest in?”
“Chemists are normal people,” I rationalized. “Therefore, spontaneous human combustion is a normal topic by your logic and reason.”
Clara let a rare smile form on her face. “You can’t find reason in everything.”
“Here’s an interesting bit of irony, Clara. This is the one time I’m doing work, and you, who constantly reprimands me for typically not doing work, are distracting me.” I turned my chair to the view the window gave. “And yes, you can find a reason in everything. It just takes a brilliant mind to find them, to see them. It has a certain beauty to it.”
She briskly walked up to my desk and slapped a folder down. My last case here. The gut-wrenching feeling in my stomach from when she arrived in my office predicted right. Clara was here to only give me work. I saw Clara turn on her heel and leave.
“You also have a special guest in the lobby!” she hollered from the hallway. “Meet with him before the case!”
I quickly thumbed through the folder as I sauntered down to the lobby. Much to my surprise, I saw my older brother and my nephew sitting in the lobby. This meeting, obviously, had nothing to do with the case Clara has given me. Matthew Peterson had long, bushy brown hair and light brown eyes. He was dressed in a navy T-shirt and baggy jean shorts. Tom, on the other hand, was dressed in a black suit with a red tie. His blonde hair was cut into a flattop.
“Hey, Allen,” Tom greeted. His blue eyes locked on me as I closed the door behind me. I was quick to take a seat across from them. “How have you been?” he politely asked.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
Tom sighed. He was dragging it out, which wasn’t very like him. It was a simple question that called for a simple answer, but Tom was stalling. Something was wrong, I suddenly thought. There was something heavy he had to say, but he couldn’t find the right words to say. Eventually, he said it. “Mom recently passed away. Your presence is requested at the wake and funeral.”
My jaw fell open and I shook my head in disbelief. For starters, my presence was never requested at family gatherings and situations. Also, I had no reason to mourn the death of any member of my family. They were all terrible to me, except for Tom. Even so, I had always had an inferiority complex to him. Above all, Cindy Maria Cooke-Peterson wasn’t much of a mother to me.
Tom glared at me. With skepticism, he said, “However, I can already tell that you have no intentions of going.”
I shook my head once more. “It’s not that,” I said, trying to sound truthful. “It’s more fear than anything else. I mean, it’s not like I’ll have a good thing to say about her.”
I saw a sudden flash of sorrow in Tom’s eyes. He said, “You could never get along with Mom and Dad. Don’t you regret it?”
I sighed. This was the genuine truth. “No, I haven’t ever once thought about that. All the same, I really can’t say I regretted it. I wanted to live my life the way I wanted to.” Unknowingly, I was avoiding eye contact with Tom. “You joined the Marines and served in a war. You got out and joined the police force in New York. After ten years, you made inspector and joined the FBI. It’s been eight years since. Your life is glamorous, so I’ll give you credit where it’s due. However, I selfishly live for myself. I want to find my own happiness on my own.”
“Yet you sit here in front of me,” Tom muttered, “and you are still miserable. You refuse to let your tears roll down your face, and you refuse to open up to more people like this.”
A lump in my throat formed. “I’ve been terrible at talks like this,” I admitted. “Besides, my words never had any value to him.”
My father had always made me feel like nothing. My mother didn’t bother do anything to make me feel any better. The only person in my family worth mentioning is my uncle; he passed away when I was twenty-four. My uncle, John, was the only person who made me feel like I was a worthwhile person. He made me feel like I could do anything, that the sky was really my limit.
It’s the feeling that my words have no value.