Broken View (aka. The Broke View)

Photo by Alexander Dummer on Unsplash

I stood backstage, hidden behind blackout curtains, the microphone cold against my collarbone.

“Just stick to the script,” my agent said. “Once the interview goes live, everything’s going to change. For the better.”

I’d said nothing then. Just nodded. Now, hearing the applause swell behind the curtain, I wasn’t sure anymore. Was I ready to burn it all down? Or was I just too tired to care?

“It’s 7 p.m. and you’re watching The Broke View. I’m Samantha Johnson, your host, and I’m thrilled to introduce our special guest for today’s episode.”

Applause rolled across the venue as I sank into my seat. The host launched into her lines, perfectly rehearsed, her voice polished to a gleam. I couldn’t stop thinking about the show’s name – The Broke View. The irony wasn’t lost on me. It wasn’t the actual view that was broken, though. It was the people watching, still clutching to the illusion of truth in a world built on lies.

A smirk played on my lips, one I tried to hide by lowering my gaze. But I couldn’t help it. They thought this was just another redemption arc. A glossy segment to boost ratings – sell a few books. But I wasn’t here to be redeemed. I wasn’t here to play mind games. I came to start a fire, one they wouldn’t see coming until the smoke filled the studio.

“We’ve been waiting for this moment, and it’s finally here!” The audience cheered as the host turned her attention to me. “Let’s give a big round of applause to our special guest, Mina Arslan!”

A strange numbness settled over me as our eyes met – something between wariness and revulsion, laced with a feeling I couldn’t quite name. She was only a few years younger, but she’d already carved out her place in the spotlight, driven and relentless, willing to scale anyone to climb higher.

My stare seemed to unsettle her. She shifted in her seat, a flicker of hesitation betraying the polish, and glanced down at her cards. A moment later, the applause faded, thinning into silence like a curtain falling between acts.

“How are you?”

I let the silence hang for a moment longer than necessary. Then, without meaning to, I smirked and looked away once more. Something about her face got under my skin. That smile was too smooth – like she’d practised it in the mirror a hundred times before stepping on stage.

But it wasn’t just the performance that bothered me. For a heartbeat, I saw my sister in her. That is… before the light vanished from her eyes. I blinked, and the illusion was gone, as it should’ve been. Still, the echo of it lingered. It left a tremor in my chest that I couldn’t quite bury, so I curled my fist in my lap and spoke through clenched teeth.

“Let’s skip the pleasantries.”

“Sure. Well, let’s cut to the chase, then.” She flashed a fake smile, eyeing the crowd just as the music grew louder. “Let’s begin the interview.”

Another round of hollow applause rippled through the venue – empty and mechanical. It all felt choreographed like the audience was following a script I hadn’t been given. Even the studio felt strange. Too many security guards stood at the edges of the venue, watching everything and nothing.

A red light blinked on from one of the cameras, like an unblinking eye tracking every move. They were watching me. Waiting for me to slip. Had they caught on already? No. I’d know if they had…

One of the producers murmured into a headset without glancing at the stage. Then the lights changed. A deep blue glow bled across the floor, dragging every eye to centre stage. The air shifted with it, dense and expectant.

Then… silence.

“Your book, I must say, was a page-turner that kept me hooked until the very last chapter! Would you mind sharing the story behind the creation of your book?”

“Like many authors before me, I find this question tricky to answer. The plot idea and the story don’t magically come together in one sitting; they required time to evolve into their final form at publication.”

“In your first press conference after being acquitted, you mentioned that this story was a product of your desperation. Can you elaborate on this?”

“I’m sure every author will have their own take on this, but writing has never been my passion. Every time I put pen to paper, it was to create something meaningful and worthwhile. I didn’t want to write just for the sake of it.” I paused deliberately and looked into her eyes. “I wanted to change the world.”

“Would you consider yourself a dreamer? Someone trying to make the world a better place – one piece of writing at a time?”

“I would like to think so, yes. Because all I have is my voice. If using it will change something for the better, why shouldn’t I use it?”

The host’s smile faltered for a split second and her next line came half a beat too late. She then glanced off-camera, as if silently confirming something with the crew. Her hand, I noticed, trembled slightly as she adjusted her cards.

One of the production crew held up a cue card just out of frame right then. The host’s eyes flicked towards it, then to the farthest camera, where the red light blinked back at her like a signal flare. She turned on that polished smile again.

“I’m Samantha Johnson, your host, and you’re watching The Broke View. Stay tuned for more chilling interviews after the break.”

Continue.