blood, sweat and fears {ashley and go}
Nov 7, 2014 20:35:17 GMT -5
Post by [nyte] on Nov 7, 2014 20:35:17 GMT -5
a s h l e y i o
He's made me miss work and I'm livid. I'm glued to a seat, looking through transcripts of sales and marking the ones that "my" men have made. Ever since there's been a string of arrests the old man has become paranoid, insisting we have a mole and that it must be someone under my charge because his men would never do it. Fuck you too, Dad.
I started ripping up the paper about fifty pages ago. A satisfying tear resonates around the office as I let the strips of paper fall to the ground. He probably had another copy of them somewhere (my dad lacks in a lot of areas, being a paranoid motherfucker isn't one of them) and if he doesn't it's no loss to me. He couldn't hurt me anymore and that'll teach him to make me sit looking at papers instead of doing something I actually enjoyed.
A storm seems to have ravaged the office and I couldn't be more satisfied with myself. Shredded paper litters the floor, names and numbers once printed upon them illegible. and I almost feel bad for the poor sap who was gonna have to clean this shit up, but then again getting my point across is more important than any extra half-hour of work for some asshole who'd sold his soul to my father.
I'm acting like a child who hasn't gotten his way and I fucking know it. It doesn't stop a satisfied smirk from snaking its way onto my lips and I push all my hair into a cap that hugs my skull. And maybe I don't have a choice and my future is already set in stone but that doesn't mean I wont take a few chunks out of the marble on my way to rock bottom.
Because actually fuck this.
I've seen their eyes through the window. It's blocked off by thick black curtains, but every so often the whites of my bodyguard's eyes will shine through the gap and I can almost see the vein popping out of his head as he watches me mercilessly destroy the office. And it makes everything all the more satisfying. Once a mess has been properly made I throw my legs upon the desk, closing my eyes and throwing my head back. I think of everywhere I could be. I think that I could not be adorned in such dark clothes and I could have worn my favorite orange cap. Right now, I could be wearing a pink apron and making coffee and not worrying about the fact that these arrests are a legitimate problem and that one of my men could be next. Or even me. I hated the responsibility Dad placed upon my shoulders the day he assigned those twenty men to me.
They've taught me never to let my guard down. Even in an office with three locks and a big man standing guard outside, my ears search the silence. Every part of me is prepared to spring upwards and to run or fight or both. There's a gun underneath the desk and knives strapped to my hips. This is barely a career district, but they've got the equipment I need. I bought the knives myself, not even dad knew I had them. As tight a grip as he had on me, I always found some way to slip under his (and his men's) noses. I blame the training, really. Hand-to-hand, combat weapons, ranged, they'd forced me to learn them all. I'd despised every second and it only burned the lessons into my mind better.
But maybe that's a good thing because the noise outside makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I'm used to the bustle of the business, men making their way in and out of the building with steel toed boots and keys that rattle against their thighs. I'm used to the silence that was anything but.
Everything has gone quiet/
My eyes fly open, heart proceeding to crawl into my throat. Something was wrong and I didn't know what, but chances are the shit will hit the fan pretty damn fast. There wasn't such thing as fear anymore, only thinly veiled anger and frustration. It seems that's all I can feel as I prepare, dread building every silent moment and I move as quietly as I can. Hand finding the small gun with ease and I place my feet squarely upon the ground.
I'm standing so fast there's a second of vertigo before I've managed to unlock the door. Curiosity killed the cat and all that.
This time it really would.
I've thrown the door open and regretted it in an instant. He's smart. Any recognizable features cleverly concealed behind cloth. Not even the color of his skin seeps through the uniform clinging to his body. It's an intimidating sight, and he's a clever one for sure. No cameras would pick up his identity, there'd be no legitimate witnesses. He's no fresh-faced aspiring mobster. It's a hit man, I think, can't think of anything else this man could be. Really, I should have seen this coming.
And yet I'm still not afraid. I should be, and the child inside of me shakes in his boots, but they've taken it from me. The trainers and my father and all of the lives I've taken have numbed me to the prospect of losing my own life. I'm annoyed, frustrated that it had to happen today and maybe even a bit embarrassed my my tantrum is in plain view of what could be my killer. Torn up paper creating a fresh snow upon red carpet was surely a sight for anyone.
I sometimes wish I could remember what it was like to really feel.
I'm an honest to god idiot because I let out a sigh and scratch my head with the the hand holding my gun. "Oh for fuck's sake."