It Eats. ( COMPLETED )

Elliot

I'm sitting at the desk in the office with my name on the door. I haven't left the chair since I sat down to read the journal. It now rests face down on the desk as I cup my face in my hands, tears threatening to overflow. Why did I say that to her?

As I was reading through each entry, cursing myself for not listening to her concerns, I had to stop and consider: did I truly know, truly understand what was going on at this company? They seemed to invite me in, show me the ropes around the office. But did they really give me all of the secrets so that I could fully understand things?

I stood, the chair scraping across the carpet behind me. For a few, brief moments I just stood there and stared at the wall - what did it truly look like for her? She was beautiful with her words so I could glean what she could see but what did it look like, what did it feel like to experience that version of the mold that I did not see.

Why did I want to know?

When Isla brought this concern to me, I had already been nose deep in Revenue's Touch and the mold by about 4 years and was unable to dig my way out. I could not tell her not to worry herself - that all would be fine - even if I had believed in that sentiment myself. It would have been a lie and somehow she would have seen through it. Or at least the paranoia would have.

Later studies found that S.C.T. victims were prone to a variety of symptoms: paranoia, hallucinations - which certainly didn't help the paranoia - and insomnia. If I hadn't told her. . . If I hadn't been told to tell her. . .

I took her concerns to Mr. Yarrow while he was sequestered in his office, but he laughed, "Those employees have long since gone on to better places of employment. There is nothing to worry about, Mr. Moore!" He gave me an awkward, tooth filled grin, "Clearly this," he struggled to find her name for a moment, "Ms. Daugherty, is hallucinating. Well this is great news!" Letting out a bellowing laugh, Mr. Yarrow clapped his hands together.

I curled my eyebrows into one knot of confusion, "Mr. Yarrow, I'm afraid I misunderstand."

His eyes cut up at me like daggers, "I did not know that you were utilizing one of your employees from upstairs as a test subject. That's a great idea!" He stood from his desk and approached me,"Maybe you've got a bit of that science brain in you yet." He closed the distance between us and slapped my shoulder, grabbing my hand and shaking it vigorously.

"But, Mr. Yarrow!" I tried to argue, to say that I hadn't authorized any such testing on my employees, "Truthfully sir, I think-"

His hand stopped slapping me and instead gripped tightly, "You're not trying to tell me that somehow, despite all of the glass surrounding the S.C.T., it escaped?"

His tone felt less like a question and more like a threat. I shook my head vigorously, waving my hands in the air defensively, "N-no, sir! S.C.T. is growing as normal in its containment."

This was a lie.

The overall shape of the mold, of course, was growing as expected by the lab assistants but we had recently begun discreetly disposing of all molds in the building that even looked like S.C.T - to stop it from harming anyone.

"Good," Mr. Yarrow's hand slacked and dropped to his side, "I'm glad to hear that you will not disgrace this company with silly rumors. Continue your research as you were instructed." He pulled his reading glasses from his nose and stuck them in the front pocket of his floral patterned button up as he turned to leave. Clearly, he would be far more difficult to convince of the mold's danger than the lab assistants - who took to the news with a mix of excitement and unease.

I turned to leave his office, thinking about how, at some point, after starting this odd job, I must have felt certain that I understood what was going on at this company. Accept the proposal from the client, begin the research for their required item, sell them their god awful weaponry, wash your hands clean of the whole ordeal and roll in the dough. At least, that's how Mr. Yarrow had always put it: we would roll in the dough after each client got what they wanted.

"But what about the client for S.C.T., Mr. Yarrow?" I turned back around and called after him - our conversation was not done. I had questions and he had to have the answers.

Mr. Yarrow dipped his head, sucking on his teeth as he turned his feet before turning his whole body to face me, "Mr. Moore, the client for S.C.T. does not care how long it takes to perfect it, only that we do." Firmly pressing the palm of his hand on the back of my head, he shoved it to crotch height, "Now keep your head down and work! Like you're fucking supposed to!" He snarled and released me. My heart pounded, drowning out the sound of him calling me obscene names as he stalked away.

I straightened my suit out and stood back up, watching and waiting for him to return to his desk, "Fucking asshole," I grumbled under my breath and turned to leave his office. Letting the door click shut behind me, I glanced down at my watch and my heart lurched into my throat. I was so very late.

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The stairs were often taken two at a time when I ran late to work but on that day, when I was running late to lunch with Isla because of a disagreement with Mr. Yarrow, I nearly floated up them. I had to lock my office whenever I left so that no one found my paperwork on the lab but doing so meant that Isla was not permitted in before I was. I hoped she did not think that I thought she was distrustful. In any case, I intended to arrive in my office before she even approached the door - even if it meant learning how to fly while running up the stairs.

But by the time I reached my office door, she was already there. Disappointment hit me like a rock and sank to the bottom of my stomach. She was beautiful in every language, her large curls tickled her round face as she turned to face me with round, brown eyes set on a lovely brown face. I slowed to a walk as I approached, "H-hey, sorry! I got stuck in a meeting with my boss." This wasn't technically a lie.

She smiled at me and the air left my lungs, "That's alright, Elliot. I wasn't waiting long, anyhow." Isla was holding a laptop tucked under one arm, a small lunch box in her right hand and in her left she was chewing on an apple, "C'mon! I'm starving! I had to get a head start on lunch because of you." She winked.

I gave a small nod and slid the key into the lock, briefly picturing Isla and myself involved in a sort of tango only adults with common sense should pursue. The door slid open with ease and for once I felt like I owned that space. Nothing was different, save for the person occupying the seat across from mine, and yet I felt comfortable in that space, "Oh come on now. A bite of an apple is hardly starting lunch."

She smiled through chews and tossed her brown curls over her shoulder, "Whatever, I maintain that I was dying out there." Her laugh sparkled through the air and I watched her eyes crinkle as her nose twitched. My heart stopped, I gulped at my water bottle.

Am I in love with this woman who was most likely infected with a super deadly mold?