A Darker Timeline

Your head is spinning and your vision is blurred. Red and silver dots flicker before your eyes, and you feel as if a steamroller has been through your brain. You put your index fingers on your temples and start massaging. The veins along your forehead are throbbing fiercely, threatening to explode any second now. You concentrate harder.

You realize you are crouched on the floor. Trying hard not to lose your balance, you extend your right arm forward and grab onto the first thing it touches. It is smooth and hard, and gives you a sense of stability. You outstretch your other arm and pull yourself up. You focus all your strength to prop yourself against the large oak desk. The world around you starts to slowly reclaim its shape. The glossy surface is covered in folders, and computer cables are hanging from the sides; the devices are nowhere to be seen. There is a broken mug that says “est DAD”, and shyly peeking from below the mess is a name plate: Adam Blumenfeld, Managing Partner.

🎲

“Everyone, meet Stacy Thomson – one of Columbia’s star graduates and our newest associate.” The man’s voice is loud, deep, and clear. But even if it wasn’t, you’re sure that he doesn’t go unnoticed when entering a room. He is middle-aged, the corners of his eyes are cracked with miniature lines, and he has an enviable amount of hair on his head, albeit tinted white. He is tall and has the wide back of a professional swimmer. He shines an overconfident smile at the crowd and wraps a strong arm around your tiny shoulders.

🎲

You can’t stop shaking. Your two arms are the pillars that stop you from crumbling back to the floor. Your breathing is fast and irregular. You look down to see your chest rising and falling underneath a half-unbuttoned white shirt, a stroke of red crossing the pale flesh of your breasts. It is then when you notice that your hands are also covered in red sticky substance. You frantically rub them against your skirt – the gray pencil skirt is already covered in red stains that are turning darker by the second. If you weren’t going crazy, you might think that the stained pattern actually looks quite fashionable. Your gaze shifts further down to your red high heels. You are pretty sure that’s their original color. The puddle of red liquid surrounding your shoes, however, doesn’t seem to be original to the carpet. The stench hits you next…

🎲

The smell of hard alcohol and cigars is in your face. You try to turn away as politely as you can, “Great party, Mr. Blumenfeld. It is so nice of you to organize those quarterly office get-togethers. I think we’re running low on soft drinks though. I’ll go check if we need to bring out some extra–”

“You don’t have to go anywhere. That’s why I pay the catering staff.” His hand makes you shiver when it slides down your lower back. His foul breath tickles your ear like a serpent’s tongue, “And you can call me Adam.”

🎲

A smell like rotting fish fills your nostrils. You turn around slowly and the sight makes a burning mixture that tastes of whiskey and metal crawl up your esophagus. You manage to suppress the urge to vomit.

The furniture around the room has been moved and there is broken glass on the floor. The one thing that can’t be missed though is the large body sprawled out next to the desk. The man’s tie is hanging loose to one side, and his belt is undone. His facial features are twisted and unrecognizable, probably due to the fact that a heavy computer tower seems to have crushed his skull.

🎲

“Stacy, come in!” The man holding the door seems to be in a good mood. “Thank you for staying so late.”

“Of course, Mr. Blumenfeld, Adam,” you reply, quickly correcting yourself as you enter the office. “I know how important the Marković account is for the firm. I’ve brought all files we need to go over in order to prepare for the deposition.”

“That’s my girl! Always so diligent and dedicated.” He smiles and hands you a whiskey glass. “Let’s relax a little first. We have a long night ahead of us.”

“I can’t,” you try to decline politely.

“Of course you can,” he winks at you. “We’re way past office hours.”

You leave the folders at the desk and reluctantly accept the glass.

Your boss takes his jacket off, hangs it over the back of his chair and moves around the coffee table to sit on the sofa. He takes a sip of his glass and reclines his head backward, “Aah, that’s nice. You should try it. Loosen up a bit.” He says while loosening his tie with one hand.

You think about the endless string of 14-hour work days and let yourself sink in the other end of the sofa, “Maybe just a short break–“ You taste the double-malt scotch and a warm sensation spreads through your body.

“Yes, a quick break is the best way to recharge our batteries. Don’t you think?” There is a strange glimmer in his eyes. He has another gulp of his drink and wets his lips.

You aren't sure whether he’s actually expecting a reply. You manage a quiet, “Of course.”

“You know, there’s a way to make it even more pleasant,” he suddenly moves closer to you and places his hand on your knee.

He has caught you by surprise, and your first reaction is to excuse yourself before your boss, as if you are to blame, “I’m sorry, Adam. I don’t–“ You shift a little to the left.

He seems to think you’re just playing hard to get because he moves even closer. You try to discourage him, but he doesn’t hear you anymore. He pushes his weight over you, pressing you against the leather couch, “Come on! I know you want it. I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

There is no way your hundred pounds are getting out from underneath that big man. You feel his accelerated breathing on your neck. The smell of sweat and cigars is choking you. A sticky hand creeps below your skirt and squeezes the inside of your thigh. You try to wriggle yourself out of there, but it’s pointless; it only seems to excite him more.

Your left arm is the only one with some room to move. It reaches for the coffee table and starts fumbling around until finally it manages to get hold of a whiskey glass. You strike with all your strength, “Adam, no…”

🎲

You gasp, “NO! Adam…”

You lower yourself to check for pulse, but you stop half-way. The smell and the great puddle of blood soaking the carpet tell you there’s no need. You rush for the door. It’s locked! Fucking bastard! You start to look everywhere for the key. A reflection from the window startles you as you are going through the pockets of the jacket he left on the chair. You lift your head up, and you see him. He’s frozen, looking straight into your eyes.

The window washer drops his squeegee and the suspended platform he’s standing on shakes. He looks at you. He looks at Adam’s body. He looks at the mess in the room. He closes his gaping mouth and takes a mobile phone out of his blue overalls.

It’s only a matter of seconds before you hear police sirens wailing in the distance…

⏰

The scream of the sirens is getting louder and louder.

“Bweep! Bweep! Beep! Beep! Ding!” You slowly open one eye and see the numbers 5:30 blinking in red. The alarm clock becomes a victim of your mightiest slap. You bury your face in the pillow, and cover your head with the quilt.

It’s been ages since you were able to sleep for more than five hours a night. The frequent nightmares are also not helping. You hardly ever remember them, but you always wake up exhausted and need a few moments to realize where you are and calm yourself.

You don’t really want to come out of bed, but you have to. It’s going to be another long day.

⏰

It’s 8 p.m. and you’re still at the office. You nearly doze off while taking the elevator to the 24^th floor. The ping sound announcing the floor shakes you out of your daze and you realize that the doors have started to close on you. Hugging the big pile of folders, you squeeze yourself out at the last moment. 

You stop to straighten yourself out, and knock on the door. 

“Stacy, come in!” The man holding the door seems to be in a good mood. “Thank you for staying so late.”

You’re not sure why, but his voice makes you stop dead in your tracks. You mouth dries up and your palms start to sweat.

He stares at you confused, “Stacy, are you OK?”

You manage to regain composure, “Erm… What? Ah, yes. Thank you, Adam. I’m fine. Here are the files you asked for.” You adopt the most professional attitude you’re capable of considering the awkward situation, “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay. I’ve just remembered there’s something really important I have to drop at HR.”

You turn around and once you’re out of his sight you start running. You note how the bundle of nerves in your stomach slowly untangles, and you feel free for the first time in months. You allow yourself to smile.

As you go down the corridor you see with your peripheral vision an open door. On the other side of the office windows a window washer in blue overalls whistles happily…