The Living Statue

9.

You know those indescribably uncomfortable situations that you simply can't avoid? Something like pushing the doors that were built to be pulled, or having your stomach growl in an utterly silent room. Or even swiping, waiting and having your credit card declined at the end. Well this was much worse.

I didn't feel like playing the hilarious, sarcastic clown anymore. It felt as if the whole world suddenly started spinning, swaying me back and forth like a landlubber, making me feel dazed and wobbly. I stopped breathing. I swear I did, for a second or two anyway. I wish I could've just died right there, or disappear into a rabbit hole where no one would ever find me. I thought about every quick and painless death I could've succumbed under and not one seemed at least somewhat feasible.

Why God? Why do I have to be such a jinx?

Out of 8 million people it had to be him. I can't quite tell who I wanted to strangle more - him or myself. Either way, I would've evaded this laborious situation. It was as if the world had shut out and I couldn't hear or see anything; as if my eyeshot had magically decreased to a minimum and the only thing I could see were the floral wallpapers in front of me, and the only thing I could hear was my laboured wheezing.

What if he says something about the job? What the hell am I going to do then?

Finally my curiosity spiked and I looked up to steal a glance at his familiar, stone-hard face. He was still and erect as ever, tall and immovable like a freaking upstanding stake. His profile was facing me, my eyes scruntinizing each part of his riveting features - the sharp edge of his strong chin, prominent cheekbones, mercurial colour of his dark eyes. I already figured out Mr Torres is a very practical, rational man. His neat, black suit didn't seem like the most expensive one. It was plain and simple, but clearly tailored merely for him. The only thing that undoubtedly testified the value of his bank account was his overbearing manner. The aura of power around him was almost palpable.

He wasn't smiling. He didn't even seem pleased to see any of us at all. Then again, I didn't expect anything less from an emotionless, conceited prick like himself. My father ran a hand through his sporadically gray hair, before gesturing towards my sister and myself.

"I'd like you to meet my daughters, Arabella and Alena," he smiled, looking proudly at the two of us.

Mr Torres' gaze fell on Arabella. She seemed overly excited, outstretching an arm for him to shake it with that foolish, seductive grin on her face. "It is so nice to meet you," she squeaked in her high-pitched voice, her eyes devouring his lean figure from head to toe. "Raphael, is it?"

Hello?! You have a fiancé at home you little witch!

"Yes," came his curt reply. For once I was satisfied with my employer's reaction, or rather the lack of one.

I seemed to have completely snapped out of my anxious trance. If my eyes could roll back to touch my brain, they would have. I didn't bother looking up again to shake my employer's hand. He and his long, goddamn hand could go to hell.

"Alena," my mother hissed from the other side of the table. I didn't deign her with a single glance.

"Oh do not bother Mrs. Griffin, your daughter and I have already been introduced," he said calmly, still standing beside the table. I could feel his eyes on me.

Oh God. Oh my God! Why would he say that?! Is he insane?!

My eyes snapped up to look at him, only to lock with his cold, menacing irises. If I hadn't known better, I might've thought he was genuinely amused. Also, if looks could kill, he would've been long dead.