At Your Mercy

1

Mrs. Frost is staring at me from the window across. Glaring, more like. Or probing.

She's been at it ever since I moved here, and that was a long five years ago. In the first few weeks, I had found it extremely inappropriate, and a full invasion of my privacy. It has grown on me now; the way her eyes seem to wander around the whole room and look for something that will mark me as who she thinks I am. She never even seems to be hiding what she is trying to do either. And it's damn straight annoying, especially after five years' worth of the same routine every morning: wake up and catch her gleaming green eyes right at you. It's not exactly the best way to start your day.

She's also seventy nine years old so I try to be a little respectful, which is probably the only reason that keeps me from shouting at her every chance I get.

Aching to get out of her line of vision, I exit my room as soon as I wake up, which I do now and close the door, clothes that I have to wear in one hand and a mind whirring with the need of something sweet to bring my glucose level up for the day.

I find a week old chocolate cake in the fridge, which is as nice as breakfasts get, and try to alternate dressing between bites. I'm not one to keep track of the time usually, so every time that I absolutely need to be somewhere, this is how it usually ends up. With one sleeve up and trying to get the other one to the same level as my mouth furiously works to digesting whatever I find. I lost my faith in my room's attached bathroom a couple of years ago when I found out that Mrs. Frost had a line of vision up there too and use the bathroom downstairs instead, brushing the chocolate out of my teeth quickly and trying to put on some lipstick which doesn't make me look like I ran into a mob and tried to run in the opposite direction. Locking the door, I find my car just in the driveway, without any egg yolks or shells (courtesy of the neighborhood again, it's probably Mrs. Frost that puts the kids up to it), and get in, racing towards my destination.

My car isn't what I would prefer, but it's in a good condition, and being conspicuous is exactly what I should avoid. Red, two-seater Ferraris aren't going to do that.

I speed up a bit, almost running into a no parking sign, and remaining probably 0.01 below the speed limit, because the thing about being a latecomer is, you run out of excuses after probably the fifteenth time. And I'm pretty sure, considering the people I work with, it took them approximately 2-3 times to figure out the fibs. The only reason they keep quiet is because I'm one of them. Needless to say, it gets a little embarrassing when you have to do the walk of shame every time you walk in through the door.

I reach there without any speeding tickets, as fast as I can, and run inside, bracing myself for the walk as soon as I touch those doors. I force them open, heaving a deep breath and place my first step.

The shame doesn't come.

What I see is people, too many people, all trying to speak at once, and the computer screen holds the very familiar picture of a man I work with. I increase my pace, trying to get a closer look at the commotion and reach the main table. Somehow I find my place between the other three, and squeeze in with them, placing my eye on the middle of the table, where everyone is looking.

The only thing I can see on the screen is the red, big bold heading 'POTENTIALS' and pictures of about five people in a line. I look up confused, and catch the eye of Patrick who is standing directly beside me.

"You finally decided to join."

I narrow my eyes. "It's only been thirty minutes."

"It's been twelve hours," he points at the coffee cups strewn across the table, "and you have snored for the better of them."