O U T | The Group Chat

CHAPTER 12

The clock was ticking. He's been feeling like something is wrong for hours but now his nerves seemed to be reaching their limits. The looks he was given, the calm reassurances and explanations. Everything was so perfectly balanced and yet so... wrong. It was like he was in a dream. It all looked real, presented itself as a soothing truth and as much as he wanted to believe it, he couldn't for the life of him chase away the uneasy feeling scratching the back of his neck, like something just didn't add up here. He was a part of a team and yet all eyes seemed to be focused solely on him.

He took the drugs he was given, responded to all the questions he was asked and passed all physical exams along with others. Each day he felt more and more tired, worn out. Each day the smiles grew louder and more inviting. And then one day, he suddenly
began running and haven't stopped since even though he constantly felt like he couldn't keep up with his own pace. People disappeared around him. There was screaming. Pain. He stopped remembering what happened a few weeks ago. Screaming. He couldn't remember why he was there. The smiles began disappearing, replaced with calculating stares and brows raised with expectations. Suffocating. Was this how he's always looked like? Breaking, crumbling, stitching back together. Why was he here? Why was he stuck here? He could swear that somewhere at some point he had a purpose and yet... he was lost. Panting. He was so alone. Swimming in a flood of bodies and yet he'd never felt more alone. Minutes to hours, hours to day, days to weeks. He couldn't focus anymore, not when his brain morphed into a ticking bomb held back by fear and pain. He could fight back, at least try. What was there to lose? And he did. And he hated himself for it. The man looked so terrified, his bones so fragile under his own heavy grip. He was a cog just like himself. He hated it. Hated it all. Himself, everyone around him, the endless corridors and tiled walls. He hated that this was what had become his home, a place in which the word 'comfort' sounded like a stupid fairytale. And then he woke up. He woke up and saw a pair of big, brown eyes looking at him with such vulnerability, such pain that for once... he couldn't let himself forget anything that had happened just to make sure he could look at these eyes again. Stuck between an endless supply of cold, stern ones, they radiate warmth despite how sad they glanced his way. He fell back asleep desperate to never forget them and for once he actually wanted to wake up again.

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Erque nearly kicked the doors to his office off its hinges as he busted inside, panting heavily and looking around frantically.

They got away.

He put his hand on the surface of his desk and tried calming his breath but nothing could stop the rush of adrenaline steadily crawling through his veins.

They both got away.

His face scrunched up in a painful scowl of anger. He felt the frustration crawling between his muscle fibers, making his body feel so foreign yet too familiar at the same time, trapping him. He screamed a shout of rage and with one powerful swing of his arm threw everything off the surface of his desk, growing even more annoyed at the lack of satisfaction the action provided. The walls of his room, otherwise an oasis of comfort, now felt crowding for his mind which made mockery of his own mistakes over and over again. His own consciousness laughed and taunted him and if he could hold his brain in his hand he'd squeeze every neuron out of it.

How did this happen? He couldn't understand it, couldn't grasp the idea of how he'd failed so miserably.

Despite the constant chanting of his thoughts trying to ridicule him again and again he took a deep breath and began thinking of a course of action. Immediately the rational part of his brain reminded him of a singular file stuck somewhere in one of the two drawers sitting under his desk. He walked to it and after emptying both of them to the, now clean, wooden surface he quickly found what he was looking for.