Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder?...
Chapter 3:
Present day New York.
Jack line.
Sitting in my office at the Acker industries, I go through my workload making everything in order before the meeting. Normally these types of work gathering are to be held in more neutral ground, like in a restaurant upon lunch or dinner, but I am known to be someone who never eats out nor drinks out.
The image that has spread out of me is that of a neat freak with an extreme OCD. An image that is so far out from the truth. Thought knowing the real reason of my reticence is nobody's business.
I stand and go toward the picture windows that form one of the walls of my office. I do not dispose of one of those high to selling window in my workplace, I hate the felling of added space it gives. I prefer closed places with comfortable habitat. My penthouse is the same, designed especially for my comfort, as is my office, which has lush carpeting covering all the floor- it gives me opportunity to salvage my feet from the discomfort of heels. There is also a stuffed linen armchair and an ottoman in front of a modern chimney while another wall constructs my small office library.
My office is also composed of two spaces, one is used as conference room, private but still accessible to others. Whereas the space I am in is extremely off-limit, only I can enter it. With a bio-metric and a fingerprint lock, disguised under a password panel; it is one of the rare places in which I can feel half the tension I have, seep out of me. But not all of it of course, never all of it.
Looking at the outside world activity, it conjures thoughts of Drake and the meeting taking place today. Questions pop out in my head one after the other.
How will he look at me after all these years? How will he speak? Will he say something while touching his lips like he did so often in the past? Will he smirk, grin, or even chuckle? Will the texture of his skin feel the same?
I drag a hand in my hair letting the feel of it ground me. He always loved doing the same saying that it was like touching silk and water. God, look at me. He is not even here yet, and I am already like a love-struck fool. A chuckle escapes me, and I smirk remembering the first time we met, not the best of times but still, I would never wish it otherwise.
12 years ago
Birmingham, England.
Jack line.
I walk slowly in the corridor, striding carefully toward the lady's restroom. When I am in, I close the door and inspect every stall, making sure they are empty, then I go back to the restroom main door and lock it.
Choosing a stall, I go in and lock its door too. Pushing a breath, I count mentally to ten -To prepare myself- then I open my uniform suit, and lift my shirt, and undershirt. When I see the bandage on my ribs had loosened, I bite back a curse. I try to rearrange the bandage, while breathing through the pain.
The action makes me remember the sickening crack, that occurred after Luther- Oswald's right-hand man- had kicked me in the ribs. But at least I have broken both his legs for it. The thought makes me pause, and I bump my head with the stall door. What would Maman, Jessy and Vicky say if they saw me like this?
The reminder of my family clogs my airstream and make my already hard breathing harder. God, I hope they are alright. I hope I am not losing my soul for nothing.
After taking a few calming breaths; I go back to finishing my task. I try to meditate through the pain while doing it. The loosening of the bandage must have happened when I crouched to help that guy gather his fallen notes. I frown remembering his name, Drake Furrow. He was surely new. Never have I seen him before. From his outer looks, he seemed like a B section student. But for him to be here, he must have it in him. His notes were well organized. His writing clear and masculine. From the skimming I could do, he was in all the courses I had, so I will see him again.
After finishing my task, I step out of the stall. I then inspect my appearance upon one of the sinks mirrors. Satisfied, I turn the water to hot and wash my hands. Since I was a child, I could never use cold water when washing my hands. I never knew why, and I knew Oswald picked on this habit, because he made sure that there was no hot water in the bathroom attached to my room. As if that was important. The temperature of the water I use is the last thing on my mind when I am in his manor. My family members are what is important and vital to me. Until I find out where they are, he could make me wash with acid for all I care. In the end he will never get anything out of me but complete spite.