Imbroglio
1.20
The weather was scorching hot. The skies were clear and the leaves were still. There was no breeze. It most probably was the start of the slow slide towards the ninth circle of Hell. No sign of life was visible outside.
Every breath hurt going in and out. His throat was on fire and his lips were raw. His skin was blisteringly warm. He walked at a brisk pace through his marble hallway leading to his state-of-the-art kitchen. On his way, he encountered the same sight he had encountered for the last five years: picture frames. Lots of them. So many, they filled the entire walls of the hallway, from top to bottom.
He did not why he slowed his pace right then. He always did that. He always found himself drawn to the faces occupying his walls. Pictures of a happy couple, of a serious couple, of a playful couple, of an elegant couple, of him, of his wife. The black-painted wooden frames seemed to stand out against the immaculate white of the walls. Their faces seemed more alive, more animated. Even more so than in real life.
He sighed and kept walking, resuming his former pace. His silk robe closely enveloped his body, hiding his upper body from view. His bare feet emitted a soft tapping noise. He had no desire to hide his presence from the house today.
After a few moments of enjoying the absolute stillness of his isolated mansion, he finally reached the kitchen.
By this point, he had a ritual in place.
He walked by his phone, completely ignoring the red light flashing with every second that passed. He picked up the crystal pitcher from the counter and drank directly from it.
It was filled with champagne.
He emptied it completely and shakily put it back on the counter top. He could already feel the alcohol's effects.
He smirked. Perfect.
Now he was ready to listen to the messages. After all, he only had three of them on his answering machine and he'd already woken up feeling that today was going to be different. He knew these things. He was good at these things.
He pressed play. The robotic voice instantly filled the kitchen.
Message from: BLOCKED NUMBER.
"You've got 46 hours to pay me what you owe me. I suggest you get on doing it."
Delete.
Message from: BLOCKED NUMBER.
"You've got 17 hours. Don't act like you forgot."
Delete.
Message from: BLOCKED NUMBER.
"I'm coming to collect."
His smirk grew. He'd keep that one.
Every breath hurt going in and out. His throat was on fire and his lips were raw. His skin was blisteringly warm. He walked at a brisk pace through his marble hallway leading to his state-of-the-art kitchen. On his way, he encountered the same sight he had encountered for the last five years: picture frames. Lots of them. So many, they filled the entire walls of the hallway, from top to bottom.
He did not why he slowed his pace right then. He always did that. He always found himself drawn to the faces occupying his walls. Pictures of a happy couple, of a serious couple, of a playful couple, of an elegant couple, of him, of his wife. The black-painted wooden frames seemed to stand out against the immaculate white of the walls. Their faces seemed more alive, more animated. Even more so than in real life.
He sighed and kept walking, resuming his former pace. His silk robe closely enveloped his body, hiding his upper body from view. His bare feet emitted a soft tapping noise. He had no desire to hide his presence from the house today.
After a few moments of enjoying the absolute stillness of his isolated mansion, he finally reached the kitchen.
By this point, he had a ritual in place.
He walked by his phone, completely ignoring the red light flashing with every second that passed. He picked up the crystal pitcher from the counter and drank directly from it.
It was filled with champagne.
He emptied it completely and shakily put it back on the counter top. He could already feel the alcohol's effects.
He smirked. Perfect.
Now he was ready to listen to the messages. After all, he only had three of them on his answering machine and he'd already woken up feeling that today was going to be different. He knew these things. He was good at these things.
He pressed play. The robotic voice instantly filled the kitchen.
Message from: BLOCKED NUMBER.
"You've got 46 hours to pay me what you owe me. I suggest you get on doing it."
Delete.
Message from: BLOCKED NUMBER.
"You've got 17 hours. Don't act like you forgot."
Delete.
Message from: BLOCKED NUMBER.
"I'm coming to collect."
His smirk grew. He'd keep that one.