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JWalker2406

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Scanning around in the dark, my eyes finally became adjusted to the lights being off. Dark shadow objects of desks, computers, and chairs give off an eery feeling as I make my way towards the rear door. Looking up I see the shining gold plaque which reads "Dean." I can feel my heart beat against my rib cage. The pounding makes it harder for my hands to stop shaking. What was I thinking? This isn’t some movie where all the great ideas are already written for you. You can’t just do a re-take Asa. My thoughts racing around my head as if it were the Daytona 500.

"What am I thinking?" I shake my head as I whisper it to myself. Hoping that I would respond to my own self. Hoping that a little me would sprout up onto my shoulder and try to talk some sense into me. Gazing at my shoulder I knew it wouldn’t happen. But it was worth a shot. The cold brass knob woke me from my weaving web of frantic thinking. Twisting the knob hesitantly, the door swings open without a squeak. Dean Peddler really made sure everything stayed in top condition. Which I was particularly glad for at this moment. Any sound could ruin my hiding spot. Shutting the door behind me I take in the strong aroma of cigars and old men cologne. The polished wood floors still glistening from the broken up light of curtained windows. I walk lightly across the room until I reach the maroon area rug. Walking around his desk I stare at the large, black, leather chair. Easing down on to the cushioning; the chair hisses at me almost seeming like it knew I was not suppose to be sitting here. Before I could rethink my plan my pants pocket began to vibrate. Jumping from the sudden movement I reach in pulling it out. I had almost forgot that I even had my phone. My face becomes illuminated by the light blue light as I read the screen. Flipping it open the color of the light changes to a neon orange. My eyes aching from the sudden production of light. Closing my eyes for a few seconds I re-open them to read the text from Taylor.

"Where are you?" I read it out loud. Resting my eyes I glance around the room looking at the rows of in-wall bookcases. Wandering if I should even respond to the message. What if its not him...? What if it’s a trap? Then again, what if it’s not. My thumb stretches to press the reply button, but suddenly halts as the rest of my fingers pick up the vibrating sensation. Another text from Taylor. ‘Dude, Brett is hurt really bad man! This guy, Dante, slit his throat pretty bad... I think he is dying! He wanted me to tell him where you are. I almost told Ace... I don’t know what to do! He is bleeding everywhere!’ Reading the text over and over again I ignore the few tears that slither down. My heart felt like it had completely stopped beating. My thumb violently started pecking away at the keys, almost like it had a mind of its own. Brad? Shit... Do these people know what I can do? Setting the phone down on the desk I prop my elbows up on the edge letting my head fall into my hands. Tears parachuting towards the stained wood below me, darkening the pages of paper as they hit in various spots. The tears seeming like lightening, never falling in the same place. Running my hands through my hair, I take in another deep breath.

My ears pick up the faint sounds of scuffling feet and men’s voices. No doubt they’ve got my message. My foot rapidly tapping against the area rug, my stomach rotates in circles. Laying my head back I stare at the intricate detailed ceiling. It felt almost like I was back in an 1800 Victorian house. As I dwell back in the past, wondering how easy it must have been to just disappear without worrying about cell phone trackers and all kinds of high-tech gadgets. A loud cracking of a wood door bounds me back to reality. The moaning of the door as they break it down swims through my ears. Soon they will be breaking down my door and I will go with them willingly. Standing, I walk around to the front of the desk listening to the heavy sounds of boots colliding against the hard wood. I hear muffled voices ordering other men how to break this door down. This door wasn’t just some ordinary door. Easily broken. This was Dean Peddler’s door. A man who takes pride in things that he owns. Leaning down against the edge of the desk I rest my arms on my chest, folding my head down and closing my eyes; I listen to the silence.