It was 9:15 AM. Christopher Jenkins, whose shift started at 9, arrived at his office.
Christopher was never one for punctuality. He was rarely disciplined for tardiness, so clearly, his importance outweighed office conduct. If anything, they were lucky he showed up at all; working sales at Corcleft Inc. was the closest to hell Christopher could get to before he actually died. But, until that day finally came, clocking in at work would just have to do.
As he entered the elevator, Christopher attempted to adjust his messily slicked-back brunette hair in the steel reflection. The man stood about 6’0″, 5’11″ if you count his slight slouch. He adorned a white button-up, a simple tie, slacks, and black dress shoes. For all intents and purposes, Christopher was the textbook image of a corporate office worker. The textbook definition part was still arguable.
DING! The steel doors quickly welcomed Christopher to the 4th floor, giving him little time to prepare for the worst thing ever: A coworker.
“Christopher! You’re here!” squawked a scrawny, older man. His voice was only a decibel away from being incredibly annoying, which gave Christopher some idea as to who this man was.
“Good morning, Richard.”
“Ronnie.”
“Hm?”
Christopher continued past the R-named man toward the coffee station. The man followed suit.
Christopher began to pour his coffee. “Did you need something?” He remarked, grabbing a couple of sugar packets.
“Are the reports ready?”
“Reports?”
“You know, the reports you said you’d ‘definitely’ give me by today.”
Shit. He’d totally forgotten. Well, maybe not ‘forgotten’, more like he completely disregarded them in favor of literally anything else. In his defense, it was either reviewing some painstakingly long papers on theme park maintenance or day drinking. Those kids should be alright if they hold on tight enough. A thought that ran across his mind half a second before he popped open a bottle of whiskey. Maybe not his greatest moment, especially because the whiskey sucked.
Christopher scrambled internally before replying, “Right, yeah. They’re ready,” he said, lying like a liar.
“Great!” the man squealed, unfortunately. “Could you shoot those over to my email when you’re done?”
“Ah, well. You see, I foolishly saved the reports on my personal computer instead of uploading them to the cloud.”
“How?! I sent you the document directly! It autosaves!” A baffled expression grew across Richard/Ronnie’s face. Understandably so.
“I made a copy,” Christopher quickly muttered. He straightened his posture, cleared his throat, and put an arm around the befuddled man.
“Look, I screwed up, and for that I am deeply apologetic. It’s just so stressful working this floor sometimes,” he sighed dramatically, “If it’s alright with you, I’ll make sure to send you those reports as soon as I get home tonight. No pressure, of course.”
The befuddled man was now flustered. “I-I guess that should be alright. I completely understand how busy you can get. Though I was hoping to have these done earlier, so I could visit my aunt in the hosp–”
“Great! I’ll get them to you first thing tonight. Thanks for being so understanding, Robert!” Christopher grabbed his lukewarm coffee, grinned, and walked away before another word could be said.
“It’s Ronnie…”
*******
Christopher arrived at his desk about 25 minutes late, which was far from surprising to his co-workers. The only time they can recall Christopher being on time was probably the first month he worked at Corcleft Inc. Once he got comfortable, he started slacking. He also became a bit of a prick.
The desks were situated in neat columns with sizable rows for easy maneuvering. The desks were adequate in size, allowing for a desktop and a few office supplies. Any miscellaneous items could be placed in one of the attached side drawers. On account of this being a work environment, every desk chair had wheels. Christopher especially liked this because it meant he could sharply turn around when he got tired of his co-workers’ monotonous blabber.
Christopher plopped into his desk chair, slightly rolling back before adjusting himself. He took a sip of his now-cold coffee, turned on his desktop, and groaned. He was promptly ignored, inspiring a louder, much more annoying groan.
“You being late doesn’t mean it’s not still too early for this,” replied Sandra P., “Some of us are actually trying to be productive.”
Another coworker, a weasely-looking man by the name of Tommy W., chimed in, “Come on, Sandy. Give the man a break,” he snickered, “Annoyance is usually a sign of love, y’know.”
Sandra glared harshly at Tommy. Her face then softened into a pleasant half-smile. This expression, and subsequent silence, lasted a few long seconds before the sound of Tommy keeling over and gasping for air filled the office space.
Gasp. Gasp. “T-that…y-you…” Tommy, clutching his abdomen, barely caught his breath before Sandra reeled her fist back, grabbed a stack of papers, and strode away. Christopher snapped his head back toward his desktop, stifling a chuckle.
Christopher, Sandra, and Tommy had been deskmates for the entirety of Christopher’s 4-year tenure. They weren’t exactly close, but Sandra and Tommy were probably the closest thing Christopher had to friends at the office, which is why nobody really clutched their pearls at Tommy’s most likely deserved gut punch from Sandra.
Once the air finally returned to Tommy’s lungs, he inched closer toward Christopher’s desk. Christopher’s empty desktop didn’t exactly give the impression of ‘busy,’ and neither did he.
Tommy glanced around the room before poorly lowering his voice, “I don’t know what you see in her, man.”
Christopher sighed. Tommy had been doing this since last December. Each year, Corcleft Inc. holds an office Christmas party, something that usually wouldn’t be Christopher’s scene. He much preferred getting blackout drunk in non-corporate spaces. However, Christmas carolers were on the prowl that week, and drunken fraternizing sounded like heaven compared to hearing a shitty rendition of “Deck The Halls” or, god forbid, “Joy To The World”. Shockingly, the office Christmas party wasn’t the worst event Christopher had ever made the mistake of attending. There was loud music, dress-code-breaking outfits, games, and hard alcohol. It almost felt like Corcleft Inc. gave a damn about their employees. Almost.
To give your place of employment a higher rating than “not bad” was essentially admitting to your bosses that you’re a weak, submissive wage slave who’d bend to the boot. At least that’s how Christopher felt, and he’d rather die than be subject to that totally plausible scenario.
He sauntered over to the snacks, or most importantly, the booze, while slyly eyeing the most skimpily dressed women. He then proceeded to take as many shots as humanly possible. Besides the warm feeling in his chest, there aren’t many more specific details to be recalled from the highly regaled Christmas party. That is, except one event. Apparently, Christopher joined a highly competitive game of Monopoly. Sandra, who was two sips of eggnog away from backflipping off the nearest raised surface, was also playing. A few chance cards, failed jail escapes, curse words, and property taxes later, Sandra and Christopher were hooking up in the storage closet.
They were never caught, at least officially, so it was extremely disconcerting when Tommy started teasing them about it. Well, for Sandra. Christopher didn’t really care. If anything, sex was just another pastime.
“I don’t see anything in her. We’re both adults with needs.”
Tommy shrugged and sighed, “You’re both so boring.” With that, Tommy limped back to his desk, presumably to be a productive employee. Christopher had no intention of that. After about 15 minutes of doing absolutely nothing, he stood from his desk and made his way back to the coffee station, just to stretch his not-at-all cramped legs.
Just as he was about to turn the corner, CRASH, Christopher and a notably late intern collided. The intern, or Gerard W., as his nametag said, swiftly plummeted to the ground. He was a sad, gaunt-looking man who clearly lacked spatial awareness.
Christopher stumbled back, “What the hell?! What’s the point of a prescription if you clearly can’t see?”
Gerard W. quickly scrambled, clumsily shooting to his feet. He tried, and failed, to gain some form of composure before weakly replying, “I-I’m truly sorry, sir. I’m not having the best morning.”
As the intern apologetically droned on, Christopher came to a disturbing realization. This man was late. Later than Christopher was. Christopher was usually the last one to the office, even on the occasions he was on time. This had been the status quo for the entirety of his employment at Corcleft Inc., and the thought of some newbie unconsensually dissolving his streak slightly pissed Christopher off.
Christopher sighed, picked up the intern’s aviators, and placed them on the sad-looking man’s face. He let the lenses fall over the intern’s eyes, “What’s going on?”
Stunned, the intern choked out a response, “I couldn’t possibly inconve-”
“Oh, come on. I’m asking nicely. Don’t be rude,” He squinted at his name tag, “Gerard.”
Gerard immediately surrendered, “I mean-It’s just-I,” he stumbled over his words for a while. Christopher could tell that the intern expected him to leave before he actually said anything, but this did not happen. After continuously pausing mid-sentence, Gerard finally let the floodgates burst, “My girlfriend and I have been together since high school, and she’s really nice, and I thought things were going well, but it turns out she’s been cheating on me the whole time,” he paused to take a breath, “I only found out because I left my bag at home and had to turn around and there was a naked guy in my living room. I left my apartment, and she called me and told me everything, and told me she loved me and wanted to be with me, and that it was a mistake, and now I don’t know what to do since she’s the only girl I’ve ever loved.” Gerard tried, and failed, to wipe away the tears in his eyes.
Christopher was dumbfounded. Not particularly by Gerard’s story of heartache and woe, but more so by his lung capacity. To him, Gerard’s problem had an easy solution.
“Break up with her.”
“What!?”
Gerard’s eyes widened. His slight slouch suddenly became posture perfect, “W-what do you mean? I couldn’t possibly leave her. I love her,” he said, irritatingly.
“But does she love you?” Christopher shifted. What seemed like common sense was seemingly rare here.
“Gerard, you seem like a nice, if not a bit meek, guy. Which is why your girlfriend is cheating on you.”
“Hu-!” Christopher placed a large hand on Gerard’s thin shoulder.
“Let me finish. You’ve been with this girl since high school, yes?”
Gerard swallowed the visible lump in his throat and nodded sheepishly.
“I have absolutely no idea what got you two together in the first place, but it’s clearly not enough to sustain a long-term relationship. And holding onto something that’s clearly not pertinent anymore is like watching a caveman cling to an ember on a hot summer day,” Christopher cleared his throat. “Also, it just doesn’t seem like she likes you that much, at least not as much as you love her. There’s no point in a relationship that isn’t mutual. Cut your losses.”
The intern stared for a few seconds before shyly turning his head. This lasted a bit too long for comfort, prompting Christopher to remove his hand from the man’s shoulder, slightly wiping it on his shirt before returning it to his side. There was uneasy silence. Maybe I should’ve taken a less direct approach, Christopher thought.
“Hey man, it was just a suggesti-”
“You’re right! I’ll do it!” the man perked up. Clearly, it was Christopher’s turn to be interrupted. “I’ve spent so long worshipping her. Giving time, money, my own life force! God, I’ve been canoodling with a succubus!” He suddenly grabbed the taller man’s hand, sending a jolt through Christopher’s spine. “Thank you for forcing me to realize that! I’ll call her right now!” Tears had started welling up in Gerard’s eyes again; Christopher’s eyes were tearing up as well, as Gerard damn near dislocated his shoulder when he grabbed his hand.
Christopher carefully pried himself from the intern’s clammy yet firm grip. He’d decided he no longer wanted anything to do with the affairs of Gerard W., and frankly, he wanted nothing to do with Gerard W.’s affairs very quickly.
“Well, I’m glad that I could help. And as much as I’d love to bear witness to your newfound freedom, I have some urgent business I must attend to,” he said, hoping to escape their chat.
The intern was far too invigorated by his impending break-up to argue against his savior. “Ah, well, I couldn’t possibly keep someone as eye-opening as you from his responsibilities,” rejoiced Gerard, “I can only hope you have as great a day as you have given me.”
“Right,” Christopher quickly patted Gerard on the shoulder before largely striding away from him. He turned a bit and shouted, “Good luck with the whole leaving-your-girlfriend thing, and don’t be late anymore, okay?”
Gerard nodded gleefully as Christopher glided away, rethinking how often he should advise people.
*******
About 4 hours into his shift, Christopher had finally started being productive. Though it wasn’t obvious from an outside perspective, he was actually a pretty good worker; so much so that he got away with being an “unpleasant” person to be around. It wasn’t a secret that people thought Christopher was, for all intents and purposes, an asshole. Sandra definitely made sure to let him know. Christopher thought so himself, just not enough to inspire actual introspection. It simply was what it was.
As he typed away various reports, his attention was diverted to a small tap on his shoulder. It was one of his Boss’s assistants.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Jenkins,” the assistant said robotically, “Mrs. Powell requests your presence at once.”
Christopher sighed, “Please tell Mrs. Powell that I’ll be in as soon as I finish these reports.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Mrs. Powell requested that you be in her office by 1:30 PM,” the assistant snapped her gaze to the wall clock before swiftly snapping it back to Christopher, “ It is now 1:27 PM. A brisk walk to the head office is about 2 minutes. Your reports can be finished later,” she paused for a second, almost like a human-being, “Mrs. Powell also requested that I relay a message while escorting you to her office.”
“Oh, yeah? What?”
“She said to tell you to ‘Cut the shit’.”
“Of course.”
The clock now said 1:28 PM, and, like clockwork, the assistant started the walk back to the office. Christopher eased out of his desk chair and followed suit.
As the assistant noted, it was only a 2-minute stroll to Mrs. Powell’s office. Granted, Christopher already knew that. He’d been called into the supervising office by his supervisor a plethora of times for a plethora of reasons. It’d happen so often that Mrs. Powell and her drones had a routine for calling Christopher into the office.
After some twists and turns, Christopher and the assistant reached their destination. The assistant opened the door.
“Mr. Jenkins, as you requested, madam,” she reported.
Madam? That’s a new one. Mrs. Powell’s assistants had always been more automatic than flesh and bone, but it seemed like there was a new, robotic interaction between them and the boss each time Christopher came to the office. He had two theories for this: A. The assistants were too committed to their jobs, or B. There was some weird, Pavlovian crap happening in the training process. Whatever it was, it was probably too late to ask about.
The office was rich in nature, covered in all sorts of randomly expensive furniture and decoration. The room was covered with browns and blacks, with the occasional yellow accent. The most colorful and expensive thing in the office was probably the Persian rug that lay in the middle of two high-quality leather sofas. The desk, situated in the middle of the office behind the rug, was a dark, woody shade. There were various interestingly shaped sculptures near the desktop, as well as a few drab-looking family photos. Behind the desk sat a black leather desk chair, turned toward the newly cleaned, glass back wall.
A calm, yet commanding voice came from the still-turned-around chair, “You’re dismissed.” The assistant nodded her head and quickly scurried out of the office. The door closed with a quiet click, prompting the leather chair to turn toward Christopher.
“Christopher Jenkins.”
“Evelyn Powell.”
“Watch it.” Mrs. Powell said firmly. The blonde woman gestured Christopher toward one of the leather sofas as she stood from her desk. She approached the bookshelf adjacent to her desk, reached behind another oddly shaped statue, and grabbed what appeared to be a gold lighter and a cigar. She then proceeded to sit on the sofa across from Christopher.
“Smoke?” she asked, lighting the cigar in her hand.
“No, not today,” Christopher slouched into the sofa.
Powell barely glanced at the brunette man ruining her leather loveseat, “Suit yourself.” She brought the cigar from her mouth, allowing a thick smoke to escape her lips, “You’re not gonna ask why you’re here?”
Christopher shifted his position slightly, enough to make this look more like a professional discussion, “You’ll tell me eventually. Unless you just wanted me to bum around in your office for some reason, which I don’t mind.”
Powell took another hit of the cigar and chuckled, “Absolutely not.” She gestured toward an ashtray on Christopher’s side of the coffee table between them, prompting him to slide it toward his boss. Powell reached her pale hand toward the ashtray and set the cigar in it neatly. Christopher had never paid much attention to people outside of their most obvious features. Until they had some form of use to him, what they looked like was irrelevant. The only exceptions to this were Sandra, Tommy, and, most notably, Evelyn Powell. These (slightly) more distinct perceptions were due, in kind, to his constant proximity to these people. He could point out basic details: Sandra had red hair and tannish skin, Tommy was a dirty blonde and slightly bulkier than most guys in the office. Evelyn Powell, however, was different. He could go into detail about her. She had shoulder-length, ash-blond hair, thin dark brown eyes, and high cheekbones. She usually wore expensive, two-piece suits adorned with some form of jewelry and wore minimal makeup. Anybody else would mistake this for love or infatuation when it was far from either. Christopher saw himself in her, or more her in himself, considering she was a bit older. They had an unspoken understanding of one another, even if neither of them knew exactly what it was. They didn’t hate or like each other; they merely humored themselves.
“Let’s cut to the chase. You’re slacking, Christopher. And more than I’d usually allow.” Powell tossed a sizable manila folder onto the coffee table. Did she have that with her the whole time? Christopher thought before picking up the folder and flipping through it.
“Sales are down 5%,” She shuddered, as if she could hardly stand to admit it, “That’s a problem.” Her face was dead serious.
Christopher stared at her for a second before deciding he should probably care, “Well, how’s the overall market doing? Things like this can be pretty relative somet-” Before he could get his half-apathetic sentence out, FWOOSH! A red high heel was flying in his direction.
“The hell–!” Christopher narrowly dodged the heel, which landed beside him on the sofa. Powell’s calm seriousness had turned into calm, yet strong, fury.
“Who the hell cares about that?! God, Christopher, I know you’re a bit dense at times, but even I didn’t expect you to utter something like that in my presence,” She snatched the cigar from the ashtray, quickly taking another puff, “Hand me my shoe, please.”
Christopher did just that, hoping that it would remain firmly on her foot this time. He thought his response had been reasonable.
Powell exhaled more cigar smoke, appearing slightly more relaxed as she slid her red heel back on. She sighed, “We are the market, Christopher. Everyone else is inconsequential,” Powell leaned forward, “And any company that stops being inconsequential is quickly dealt with. You know this.” Christopher indeed knew this; any company that was passionate enough to try and surpass Corcleft Inc. was hastily and forcefully shot down. He had witnessed it countless times.
It was rare that Christopher saw Powell outwardly express her anger. He corrected his posture and straightened his face, “What are you telling me this for?”
The inquiry threw her off a bit, “Excuse me?”
“I have no superiority over the rest of this office. I simply work here with them. I’ve done my work, I can’t speak for everyone else.” Christopher’s face had become blank. “If this is a major issue, why not call a staff-wide meeting rather than vent to your nearest employee?” he coldly inquired.
“You have a point,” Powell crushed the cigar into the ashtray, leaned back, and crossed her legs, “But I’m not singling you out for no reason, Mr. Jenkins.” Powell nodded her head to the unopened folder, “You’re one of the more useful assets around here.”
Christopher picked up the manila folder once again, flipping through its contents. The folder contained detailed profiles of various employees at Corcleft Inc., showcasing their strengths and weaknesses. Christopher skimmed through the folder. There were names that he recognized, like Sandra P. or Tommy W. Then there were names that he didn’t, like Ronnie G. or Patrick Q. The file was arranged from least valuable to most, and Christopher was smack dab in the middle.
“What is this supposed to mean?” he asked, a confused look growing across his face.
“It means that we’re making cuts, Christopher. And if you don’t tighten up, you may be one of them. The higher-ups don’t see the value you bring to Corcleft as much as I do, and there are only so many arguments I can present in your favor. Helping us escape a couple of scandals means nothing if you’re becoming one of them.”
Clearly, she’s had a puff too many. What is she talking about? “I’m not sure what you’ve heard, but there’s not much scandalous about me,” Christopher contended.
“Yet.” Powell suddenly stood from the couch, sauntering over to her desk. Christopher followed suit. She reached for a small, unmarked box on her desk and handed it to Christopher. “Some of the higher-ups are having a little get-together tonight, you should go in my place. Maybe start making the arguments for yourself,” Powell advised, handing him a thin card. Powell then sat behind her desk. Christopher stood in front, gazing at the card.
“You’re dismissed. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she stated. As Christopher turned toward the door, Powell called out one last thing, “Oh, and don’t be late.”
*******
Christopher arrived at a shoddy-looking building. This couldn’t possibly be the “get-together” Powell had told him about. The establishment, assuming it was established, was almost invisible in the darkness of the night. Its dark exterior bore no light, with the exception of the faint glow of a sign hanging over the entrance. The dim light also revealed a tall, bulky man, presumably guarding the door. Christopher approached the stone-faced man and handed him the card. The guard examined the thin paper for a few seconds before nodding and moving aside. This night had been going faster than Christopher expected.
After he’d gotten the ominous card from Powell, Christopher spent the rest of his shift examining it. It was standard cardstock and had minimal printing on it. The card was also pretty straightforward in its messaging:
1749 EAST BARRINGTON ST.
9:00 PM
FORMAL ATTIRE
NO CARD = NO ENTRY.
You’d have to be functionally illiterate to misinterpret it. Christopher wasn’t particularly attached to his job, so the thought of losing it wasn’t too distressing. It’d never been hard for him to land a job, though it would be slightly annoying to go through the interview process again; thus, staying employed at Corcleft Inc. was preferable. It also didn’t help that Powell seemed more distressed than usual. With a deep groan, Christopher ultimately decided to attend this cryptic ass party, as he’d put it.
Christopher stepped into the dark lobby. There were glowing arrow-shaped signs that served to usher guests to the main area. A strange chill ran up Christopher’s spine; maybe due to him pregaming before he left his home. Whatever the reason, he was already there, and leaving now was futile. Christopher continued past the arrows.
There was a shift. The main floor was illuminated with bright, neon colored lights. Greens, purples, blues, and reds drowned the space and its participants, making it seem as if the guests were also decorations. The music blared multiple genres, the only consistent thing being the extremely loud bass of the speakers. Debauchery transpired in nearly every corner. The mere sight of this “get-together” was enough to make any religious man here burst into flames on Sunday morning.
This was too much, even for someone as apathetic as Christopher. He scoured the floor with his eyes, searching for what brought him the most comfort: Hard alcohol. If he was going to stay here, there was no way he’d do it sober. Christopher made haste to the bar, choosing a seat next to a suited man. Christopher waved down the bartender.
“Four whiskeys on the rocks, please. If you have a tall enough glass, you can just pour them all together.”
A slight snicker came from his left, “Four at once? People usually space those out, y’know.” It was the suited man, wearing a small smirk.
“Yeah, well, I prefer to do most of my drinking at the beginning of the night. That way, I can jump straight into the crowd. I’m a strong advocate for drunk efficiency,” Christopher quipped, grabbing the tall glass of whiskey directly from the bartender’s hand before taking big gulps.
“I see. Is this preference of yours based on any actual research about drunken susceptibility?”
“It’s based on the fact that I like it.”
“Fair enough.”
The suited man laughed. Christopher couldn’t see what was funny; maybe the man was already drunk. He glanced at the suited, chuckling man. There wasn’t much to say about his appearance; he looked exactly how someone would picture a maybe 50-year-old man in a suit. He was practically a living stock photo. Just as Christopher decided to ignore this presence-less man’s existence, a light flashed in their direction, revealing a gold logo that read CORCLEFT INC. This shabby old man was one of the higher-ups Powell mentioned.
He cleared his throat and pointed toward the logo on the suited man’s jacket, “You’re from Corcleft?”
“Huh, suppose I am,” the man said, glancing down at the logo on his jacket as if it’d been news to him.
Christopher sat up slightly, minutely adjusting his demeanor. He avoided any drastic shifts in attitude lest he seemed like an opportunist, which he was.
“Neat. I also work there, though I haven’t been given my company brand suit yet,” Christopher remarked dryly, now turned toward the suited man.
The man giggled. Ew. “Ha, I’m sure you’ll get there soon enough,” the suited man then pulled a pen and a card from his suit jacket, “Tell me, son, what’s your name?”
Well, that was easy. “I’m Christopher Jenkins, sir. Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, giving a faint smile. Christopher’s gaze then shifted to the card held by the suited man. The harsh lighting made it nearly impossible to read what the man had jotted down.
“Ah, Mr. Jenkins! I’ve heard many things about you, all conflicting in nature.”
“What can I say? I have that effect on people,” Christopher paused, “If it’s any consolation, my strengths definitely outweigh my weaknesses.”
This time, a chortle came from the bumbling man, “Well, with a personality like that, they must! You know, what?” The suited man flagged down the bartender, “I’ll have the same thing as my compatriot here,” the man flashed Christopher a smile.
*******
Christopher spent about two hours schmoozing with the suited man, all while learning virtually nothing about him. The only conclusions he was able to draw from the surprisingly unreasonable man were that he was pretty high up on the Corcleft Inc. ladder and shared Christopher’s appreciation for alcohol, though probably in a healthier way. Their easygoing conversation soon came to an end once the suited man’s phone rang. His gleeful face suddenly straightened out.
“Your phone’s ringing,” Christopher pointed out.
“Unfortunately so,” the suited man’s tone had completely shifted. He sounded vaguely irritated now. He stood from his barstool, pulled a small bottle from his pocket, and placed it in Christopher’s hand.
“What’s this?” Christopher questioned.
“I do wish I had more time to appreciate something as delicate as what I’m bestowing onto you,” he admired the shimmering orange liquid in the bottle. “One last drink before I leave? It’s a mix of my own, I’m pretty darn proud of it.”
Christopher had always been taught not to take drinks from strangers; it was one of the most basic safety rules. He was hesitant, but decided to indulge the man.
“Fine by me,” he said, removing the top from the bottle.
The suited man smiled before grabbing the glass he had on the bar counter. “Cheers!”
The men downed their drinks, shook hands, and parted ways. Christopher decided he had bootlicked enough for one night.
*******
Christopher arrived at his spacious apartment. His head had suddenly started pounding, and none of the various painkillers he took in his car were helping. He clumsily stumbled through his apartment, aiming to reach his bed. After about 5 minutes of stumbling, Christopher made it to his bedroom. He attempted to flop onto his wide bed but was met with wooden flooring instead.
He attempted to pick himself up, but it was futile. His body belonged to the ground now. He laid there for a few minutes until he was met with loud, sharp pain.
POUND POUND POUND
Christopher’s head throbbed endlessly. A pain so unbearable that he began to bang his head onto the wooden floor. It was no use.
POUND POUND
The pain had spread to his chest now. His heartbeats were a jolt of electricity and then a faint knock. Its speeds alternated so much that he felt his heart about to burst.
POUND
It was all over his skin now. It was itchy. It hurt. It felt good. Christopher felt his skin get tighter, as if his bones had fully detached themselves from him. He felt his limbs getting longer.
Silence. Followed by a guttural scream. He felt nothing and everything simultaneously. Liquid dripped from his eyes and nose. Tears? Blood? His vision became shot. Colors were no longer colors right. Something was wrong. Everything was wrong.
Christopher felt his bones rip through his thin, fragile skin. Or were they? He couldn’t be sure anymore. He felt everything and nothing.
CRRRRK BOOM
His heart had exploded. Its arteries and veins strewn internally, attaching themselves to his emerging bones.
His screams continued, or he thought they did. He couldn’t hear himself. He couldn’t feel himself. But he could feel everything. Especially his head. His head was no longer his. No longer his alone. They could feel everything. The cerebrum, the frontal lobe, the amygdala, everything was being pulled apart. It was like breaking a s’more. Chris found that funny. He thinks he did at least.
The body continued to chasm. Topher’s bones splintered into one another and pulled apart. A mix of what felt like blood spilled, mixed with a shimmery substance.
As the chest continued to stretch, so did the head, as well as the skin. It was everything and nothing. Like an itch that disappeared and reappeared. Chris was sure he thought that was funny.
More liquid poured out of the form; it seemed never-ending.
FWOOSH
There was a sudden force, like repulsion. Everything went black.
