My heart stops.
Maybe not literally, but it goddamn feels like it.
I get a feeling in my gut. Not a good one; it’s like my insides have fallen out of me. It feels familiar, but that isn’t comforting.
I feel my blood drain from my face.
Every little sound in this room is amplified up to 11. I don’t even know what “up to 11” means or comes from, but in this context, I think I get it.
All in all, I want to throw up on the nice burgandy carpet.
The nice blood-red carpet.
The carpet the colour of blood.
I vomit on it anyway. Screw the niceties, screw this situation, screw this smug fuck in front of me – I’ll vomit on his carpet, and if he doesn’t like it, he can go fuck himself.
I wipe my mouth with my sleeve, take some breaths, and stare at the man behind the table.
“What do you mean?”
I ask the question, but my body’s reaction is a good indication that I already know the answer.
“This is your plan. This is all your plan. Right up to this very moment…”