(ReaderxMephisto Pheles) Gatling Dance - Chapter 3

I don't know where I am. I don't know where I am. I don't know where I am.I don't know where I am. I don't know where I am!
Darkness everywhere, voices, voices of your neighbours, your family, people you used to call your friends. The scorn.

You woke up in your party dress from an abrupt nightmare, you groaned and moved into the velvet of your sofa, woken by the sensation of your mobile ringing on your desk - urgh, you left it here last night didn't you? Grade A for bad decisions must have gone to you.

You groaned into the cushions, kicking a few that were at your feet to the floor as a hangover headache began to set-in. You were glad you had enough sense to shut the curtains before you passed out, you didn't think you could quite deal with sunlight right now.

With another groan, you reached your hand into your now tangled tufts of hair, and rubbed your forehead tiredly, and then rubbed the sleep and mascara out of your lashes, and sighed as you caught your reflection on your mobile.

You switched the alarm off with agitation as you realized it was set for 6AM, you remembered - it was a work day. You knew your boss would be in, likely nursing his hangover, taking it out you and various interns and staring into his bottomless pit of coffee. Caulfield never took days off. Ever.

Stumbling to your feet, without bothering to walk to your bed, you reached around to the back of your dress awkwardly and were almost relieved the back was so low, the zip was in reach and you tugged what little way there was left on it, downward and let the dress drop to your ankles and took a naked walk to the showers, turning them on as cold as humanly possible.

It was a sobering sensation, and you kept the dimmer-switches down as you navigated your apartment, at least you'd washed the sweat and tangles off. You stood in the full-body bathroom mirror and dried your form down before grabbing your underclothes and black pants suit you usually wore, and slowly began buttoning up your white polo-shirt. You frowned. It felt tighter than usual, either you put on weight or it had shrunk in the wash - or you had some more growing left in you - you weren't sure.

Slinging your blazer over your shoulder, you walked into your kitchen and began to pour in a very unhealthy, sugary kid's cereal into a bowl with some milk and slid into fluffy slippers, half-ready for work. You had a while, and you knew it.
Turning on the early morning news, you sat down and slowly began to shovel spoonfuls of cereal into your mouth, only really keeping the TV on for company, you glanced over at your coffee table and saw the tossed business card.

You swallowed.
So, you hadn't dreamed last night's events?

"I must have done something right," you muttered, finishing up and putting your cutlery away.

Well, you resolved you wouldn't tell your boss about your encounter with the new big investor, you didn't want him using you any more than he already did, if anything, this was your ace-in-the-hole, besides, he already knew far too much about you. You did not like the hold that Mr Caulfield possessed over you, and you would not exacerbate that.

Getting up as the time went by, you made your way to the bathroom again, opened up the cabinet, and took some caffeine tablets to help your hangover and to get through the day, feeling a slight twitch in your leg muscles as you did, as your body was forcefully animated.

Sighing, looking at the shadows threatening to form under your eyes, you reached for the concealer you kept besides various bottles of medications and began to apply it heavily under the areas.

"Whole damn face may as well be a problem area," you grumbled, slamming the cabinet shut, doing up your tie, sliding into your button-up blazer and rolling your shoulders back.

Time for work.
---

Hello. You have reached the office of Mr Caulfield for Silver Arms, how may I help you today?

I'm sorry, Mr Caulfield cannot come to the phone right now, but I'll happily take a message.

We'll have to reschedule.

We'll have to cancel, I'm afraid.

There's no shareholder's meeting. The meeting has been moved. The meeting is cancelled. The meeting is in five.

Get me another coffee.

Yes sir.

No sir.

Three-bags-full-sir.

---


You all but slammed the phone down, you were barely a few hours into the day, your head was pounding, and your boss had barely spoken a word, presumably nursing a much worse hangover.

That was, until you saw him leering over his desk, looking quite awful himself.

"You aren't productive. Go home."  he grunted.

You blinked slowly and looked up from your desktop.

"E-excuse me?"

"Leave me an updated schedule, head down to Souda - tell him he's covering, and go home ," hissed the older man.

You took a few moments to process this and gave him a confused stare. You were shaking due to being on caffeinated beverages, and you'd been less than pleasant, but no less efficient than usual, in fact you felt a little insulted by the insinuation that you were.

"With all do respect, I'm doing best!" you said, clearly affronted.

The man slowly shut his eyes, unable to take your shout, and seemed to be internally counting to ten.

"I know, consider it by way of an apology for leaving you behind last night. Go home," reiterated your boss, heading for the door of your office.

You stared, he stopped and looked over his shoulder at you.

"Work from home if you must, but come back when you're productive," he said, covering for what could be considered an act of kindness.

You gave him a suspicious look.

"Am I getting paid for today?"

"It's coming out of your sick leave, now shoo, get out of my hair," he grumbled "-and get some rest, you look like shit," and shut the door.

Pot. Kettle. You thought, slowly packing your things away.
Guess that nightmare rattled you harder than you thought.

----

I mean was it really that obvious that even though it didn't affect your work ethic, that you were clearly rattled and unsuitable for work?
You sat down on the train home and stared bitterly at your reflection in your smartphone. Really, you were missing a day of work just because you couldn't hold it together?
Just because of a bit of wine and a bad dream?

But it wasn't just -any- dream, it was that dream.

You felt your heart-rate begin to increase. Medication. You needed to go home, and take your medication. The anxiety was washing over you, the feeling of warmth behind your eyes was unbearable. Your stare was glassy, and your breathing was shallow, you just wanted to go home.

I mean honestly, can I do anything right? I couldn't even do my job today.

When you got to your apartment you found yourself shaking as you struggled to get the key in the door, and quickly slammed it shut behind you, locking it and leaving the key hanging in it was you made it to your bed this time.

No. No medication. You couldn't handle the side-effects. You didn't like i--

Your eyes widened as you lay on your bed, stare landing on your closed window.

Something was in your window.

No. Not again.

-----

It had a strange, bulbous sort of appearance, outstretched green-arms, a frozen expression, you didn't know how a thing like that got to your sixth story window, you didn't care. All you knew, was that it wasn't real - and suddenly got off the bed and forcibly drew the blinds shut on it, shaking as you were in such close proximity.

You felt your legs cave under you briefly. You took a few moments to steel yourself to get up again and stumbled like a drunk until, you threw yourself into the bathroom.
Panting slightly, you ripped open your medicine cabinet, and began to forcefully take out bottles, knocking a few things as you did, and grabbed something perched on the top of the cabinet itself, before collapsing on the sofa of your living room, and letting a scatter of pills fall open on your coffee table.

Slowly, methodically, with a degree of both practice and obsession, you sniffed and wiped a few stray tears.

Lets see, small white pills. Anxiety. Small dose.

You placed your finger on them and slowly slid them into a pile on the table.

Capsules, for depression, large dose.

You slid them in a little pile.

Round tablets, for hallucinations - neuroleptics, known as antipsychotics - you rolled to a larger pile.

You looked at the tall glass of water on your desk and then at the last thing you grabbed from the bathroom, and slowly shut your eyes in pain - why, why did you pick that?

Drain-cleaner.

Wash down all those meds with drain-cleaner.

You smacked it off the table, making it fall with a clatter, and began to take your medication, one at a time.

Finally, considerably doped up, you slid into your sofa, only to see the business card from last night was under your glass of water.

Hesitantly, you reached out for it, twiddling it in your fingers.

What would a fancy business-man want with somebody so riddled with issues?
Someone who did a bad thing?

"I won't know until I call him," you muttered "-set up a few dates," you didn't sound too enthused by the idea of it, why? You'd probably just get dropped anyway. Your heart skipped a few beats anyway as you stared at the elegantly written mobile number.

"It's only been a day, too soon," you grumbled, deciding to start up your laptop and leave the TV running in the background, if only for a bit of company.

You sighed as you looked up over your work on your laptop at the TV - some show about teenagers and their family problems was on, you snorted, and turned it over, but it did raise a question. Did your family even want to know how you were doing?

Part of you wished you could call your mum back in England, giggle down the phone, tell her you met a man, tell her you had a good job.

But you tried last-time, they picked up, heard your voice, and hung up.

Nervously, you decided to dial their number again on your mobile, after staring at it for a solid eight minutes.

It was going to ring, mum would pick up, and this time, things would go better - you told yourse--

"The number you have dialled has not been recognized, please check the number and try your call again"

You felt your hand numb up, your phone slowly slipped out of your hand as though oozing, and dropped to the floor with a clatter, you weren't sure if it was from your emotions or from the medications, but salty, hot tears began to race down your cheeks as your eyes slowly drew shut for the evening.

----

When you woke up, you felt a bit better, but not by much, a little nauseated, still slightly numb, and your mouth tasted like shit from sleeping so much. You sighed, well, it was Friday at least, so your boss gave you the best day to have off, right?

This made the rules different, right? You stared at the slightly bent business card that had fallen from your fingers when you passed out. The best time to make plans - especially for people who worked five days a week, was during a weekend, especially a big CEO-type - who might only really have Sunday off or an awkward schedule in general. It might look needy, but you could play it off as practical.

Besides. The last form of contact you had with anyone who cared about you would have been your family, but they wouldn't speak to you - they hated you - and as you checked your dialled numbers (to make sure you simply hadn't hallucinated the action before you passed out) you saw that you had indeed dialled them, and that the number had been unsuccessful. It worked before, but not now.

Your parents didn't even want to know you.

You bit your lip, and decided to dial for the purple man, sniffling and clearing your throat as the phone began to ring.

Surprisingly, despite the mascara and makeup unattractively running down your features as you placed the call, your voice didn't waver - there wasn't even a single indication of how you felt down the line. It was perfect.

You were so good at lying to yourself that it was easy to lie to the rest of the world, right?

"You are speedy, aren't you? I'm glad to hear from you so soon, if a little surprised."

You swallowed nervously and steeled your voice.

"Well, I figure you're a busy man, a-and that a Friday would be best to make plans, I'd like to see you as soon as possible," well fuck, that DID sound needy.

"-because I really did enjoy your company, but I can't help but feel like it'd be even better when sober," you said, trying to lighten the tone.

"-Initiative! Ah, I love a lady who doesn't mince her words, I can free up either Saturday or Sunday, I'll have a lift waiting for you at your apartment," he said, you reeled - the man was very assertive, he had a tone that left no real room for argument.

He's the rich type, you reminded yourself - they like to be needlessly extravagant, still, you couldn't deny that part of you was giddy about it. Nervous, but giddy and quite frankly enjoying the first class treatment you weren't born for.

"When is good for you, dear?"

You blinked owlishly, muting your TV.

"Er, t-tomorro---"

"Tomorrow at 7! I'll have a lift waiting by the gate, did you have anything particular in mind?"

You were dumbstruck, you hadn't actually thought that far, you just wanted to take your mind off everything.

"Erm, I..just..." you felt heat creeping up on your neck "-I just wanted to spend more time with you Mr Phele--"

"Mephisto, dear,"

You blushed as you held your phone.

"Mephisto then, y-you can choose," you furrowed your brow, from your experience with the upper-class, and people with general, they liked a little ego-fluff now and then, it tended to be the best (if a little suckupish) way to make a slightly offish interaction end on a good note.

"I-" you swallowed nervously "-I trust your...refined tastes and better judgement, as long as long as we don't end up in a place that's too crowded. I'm not a fan of crowds. It was also why I felt rather out of my depth when you saw me,"

"What the lady wants, the lady shall have~ I'll be seeing you very soon then," there was a pause down the line"-dress semi-formal, I have a few things in mind."

You nodded despite knowing he couldn't see.

"O-okay, by--"

He hung up before you had the chance.

You flopped into a laying down position, staring up at your ceiling in disbelief.

"And he said -I'm- the one who doesn't mince their words."