The Upfall.

Upside.

Her mind drifted. All the way back to the day she lived her dream. Before her life became a nightmare.

As Dawkins continued grilling Miss Olkowski, the memory of her very first day on the 9pm news came to her, fresh with the day's joy.

"We're live in 60 seconds," a short man said, standing beside the large cameras that stared at her from opposite the tall oak desk. He had big round headphones hugging his scalp and his voice was loud and taller than he was.

To the side was a glass wall separating another room. It had rows of desks with monitors being worked by all sorts of technicians, each with similar headphones but with the big round knobs only on one side against one ear. It was the control room, the largest Maryanne had ever seen, with the most personnel.

"Thirty seconds to air," the floor manager said. The cameras lifted on their platforms and she could feel them stare closer and harder.

She fixed herself in the tall armless chair, placing her forearms on the tabletop. Then turning up to the cameras she saw her words, her first sentence, displayed on the teleprompter. The sentence she had recited, prior to that day countless times in her car, in her bathroom to herself. But that day she was finally going to read it out loud to everyone.

"Ten seconds," he announced, and behind his voice followed a song-the Great Nation's news theme song that she always hummed in the shower. No lyrics, just some fine patriotic tune.

She jerked her shoulders up and down then let them fall and relax.

"Five, four..." he shouted, then threw his hands up in the air, signalling two, then...

"Good evening and welcome to the 9 o'clock news here on The Great Nation, I am your host, Maryanne O'Neill," she said, following the scrolling words on the teleprompter.

As she did, her heart began to beat faster and louder. Her eyes zeroed in on the teleprompter monitor. Everything else blurred out.

Behind it, she knew, were eyes. Millions of viewers tuning in for the 9pm news.

Words began to roll off her tongue faster than she intended to let them. The commas and periods, though large as the display's font, became invisible.

Her breath shortened. A big gasp of struggling air pooled in through her nose barely through a sentence.

She felt she was losing it, then,

"Stay with us-we'll be right back after this short break."

She got a chance to regather.

"Two minutes break, stand by," the floor manager announced towards the control room, then scurried over to the desk beside Maryanne. "Are you good?" he whispered.

"What?" Maryanne asked, confused and slightly worried.

"You haven't taken your eyes off the monitor. You've barely blinked."

"Oh, I'm just nervous, I guess," she let out a flat chuckle.

"Hey, you're doing great. Just breathe-slow and deep," he said, tapping her gently on the shoulder then scurrying back to his post. "You're doing great."

"Thirty seconds to live," he stared down at his watch.

The chatter continued behind the glass wall.

"Ten seconds to live," he said, then lifted his hand up in the air and like a choir master bringing his crew to order, he curled his fingers into a fist. The chatter stopped. Silence took over.

Just like in the courtroom after the judge yelled "Order in the court!" when the gallery collectively turned from talking to one another and faced the front of the court.

Miss Olkowski was getting assistance from the bailiff off the witness stand, then down the well of the court into the gallery. Everyone watched as if in a moment of silence for her after an honorable deed.

Maryanne scoffed, then as she turned away from the 'friendly neighborhood old lady,' she saw the words on the teleprompter ready, waiting for her to sound them.

"Five, four..." the floor manager started, then as usual, switched to the hand signals.

"Welcome back to The Great Nation," she said. Her voice calm and steadier than before. Her breath had smoothed out and she didn't hear her heart in her ears anymore.

Beside the monitor, in her no-longer-blurred periphery, she saw the floor manager. Both his hands were up, lifting his thumbs up beside his cheeks at her.

A smile grew under the professional expression she wore.

When the hour was over, after he wrapped it up, and a loud applause roared up from the control room, the floor manager walked up to her in his tiny strides, "See, that was good. You're a natural," he said as he held her hand off the high chair. "You just have to shake off those nerves, right." She nodded slowly. Then they began to walk away from the table and stopped behind the cameras.

"Okay, so I still have some work to do," he said, scurrying towards the control room's door. "You be safe."

"You too," she replied. "See you tomorrow."

"Same place," he said wryly.

"Same time," she added, matching his wry.

Then she heard a voice from the door. Her closest friend, Olivia's high-pitched, gleeful voice. She frowned a little at the memory of her. Though at that moment a wide smile drew across her cheeks.

"There she is," Olivia said. "How was it?" Her voice was high and full of excitement.

"It was so good," Maryanne answered. "I was so nervous..."

"What, you, nervous?" Olivia jumped in, smiling teasingly.

"Yes, me," she answered, then a group of people walking into the studio stopped before them.

"Congratulations ma'am," one of them said, "you were great in there," as the rest stood around smiling and nodding agreeably.

"Thank you," Maryanne bowed her head slightly in some involuntary humility. Then the group walked into the control room. Her eyes turned to Olivia.

The thought of her reminded her face to frown again.

"Counsel," the judge said, lifting his open palm toward the prosecution's table, "you may proceed with your next witness."

The prosecutor stood up, his silver hair bouncing on his head as he walked up to the front of the witness stand. Maryanne's eyes trailed his steps and finally caught up to him as he turned to face the gallery.

"Your Honor, the prosecution calls Miss Cassandra Blake," he announced, peering sharply towards the gallery.

Maryanne stiffened. Her eyes widened. She shot a terrified stare at him. The tips of her fingers trembled against her clammy palms as fists struggled to tighten.

That name was her past. She thought she had long buried it but there it was, walking slowly up the aisle, vengeance burning in it's eyes.