Kill Me Persuasively

My cell phone rings as soon as I step inside my house. While I can answer immediately, I choose to let the phone ring as I lock the front door. I stuff my keys inside my front right jean pocket and then take out my phone, glancing at the number. It’s a number I don’t recognize. Oh, well. They can leave a message. I make my to the kitchen, wondering what to eat while I begin the first stage of my new plan. My kitchen is as plain as they come: a white fridge, standard marble countertops, white tile floor, beige walls, a small oven and an electric stove. The kitchen clearly wasn’t the most important part of the house whenever it was built, but I’m not complaining. At least it has higher standards then rundown apartment kitchens. It’s not like I have people that come over regularly for dinner to have a friendly chat. I choose to grab an apple-specifically a gala apple- a cold water bottle from the fridge, and then walk through the hallway to my study.
The study is one of the biggest rooms in the house. When I brought the house it was the master bedroom, but I chose to transform it into a study. It’s where I keep all my papers meticulously in place. Everything is sorted by relevance. The current papers of interest I keep in my top desk drawer in the correct labeled file. The older papers, or papers that I don’t use anymore, I put on the shelves that are throughout the walls of the room. The study has two medium sized windows; one is right above the large mahogany desk I have. I like the natural light the room gets-it saves me from having to use too much electricity. The other window is to the left side of the room, out looking the small backyard. Sometimes I like to just stand at the window and gaze outside, observing the scenery. It can be quite calming. Peaceful, even.
I sit myself at my desk, placing my apple and water bottle to the right. My cell phone rings again. I take it out of my pocket, frowning when I see it’s the same number as before. They didn’t leave a message before, so why are they calling again? I shake my head- I had no time to wonder about such minuscule mysteries. I had a plan to form. I had to make sure this would be the perfect plan. The one that would set off my future. I take out the first stapled papers from the first blue file in the top drawer. My current topic of research: guilt. Guilt is an interesting feeling to harness. It has been a topic of interest for me, and when I am invested in a topic, I do mass research and sometimes even conduct my own experiments to find if results that these other scientists have done are true. You want solid, real facts after all. People will always call out a charlatan when they’re caught. Well, except for politicians. They get away with just about everything nowadays. Anyone with higher power can get away if you think about it.
I had questions about guilt. How does guilt form in a person? Who does guilt affect more? How many types of guilt are there? Most importantly, how can you cause guilt in the easiest way? I glance down at the article I held in my hands, my eyes scanning over parts I’ve already highlighted. What causes guilt? Well, that is self-explanatory. Guilt arises when we feel that we’ve cause another person some form of hurt or hardship. Apparently there are five types of guilt that a person could feel. The first is guilt for doing something you shouldn’t have. This could be relatable to a person who commits an act of stealing, or even something a child would do like disobedience. Lying, cheating, doing something we swore we’d quit; those are all things we can feel this type of guilt for. I’m pretty sure babies can be excluded from this type of guilt, or all types of guilt for this matter. They don’t have the mindset yet. I can’t say that I am susceptible to this form of guilt. When I was younger, I used to feel a lot of guilt. Now I feel barely any guilt, if no guilt at all. Funny how things change.
The second form of guilt comes from something we want to do but can’t. This guilt usually comes from thoughts or actions that can be seen as taboo or completely unsafe to have. Basically if you want to do something that society thinks is wrong, you would feel guilt if you did it. Well, maybe, maybe not. If you feel strongly about it then the guilt isn’t necessary. The third form of guilt is more mind based (all of these form are mind based). This guilt is basically from having any bad thought about someone; in other words, wishing harm to someone because you can get some sort of vengeance for it. So, if someone is being rude and makes you feel stupid in front of your friends or colleagues, you would most likely wish them some form of karma to come after them. Question is… do people really feel guilty about wishing that on a person? We don’t mean it most of the time (or I assume we don’t), so why would we need to feel guilty about it? I suspect it’s because when you’re angry you blurt out sentences you don’t mean, and later you wish to take them back. Take traffic as another example. We all dread traffic. There is always that one person that’ll cut in front or drive slow. So we wish that they get hit by a car. Do we ever feel guilty for that? Some people may. I surely wouldn’t. I see no reason to feel sorry for making a true comment about a person’s driving.
The fourth type of guilt is the feeling that you didn’t help someone enough. This one, I can understand. It seems to be a common type of guilt. Lazy people ignore this guilt, and for their own good. Smart of them, really. Though people always make the argument that they don’t care. Which could be true, but each person has his or her reason. You think people in higher power would feel this type of guilt. With them being responsible for so many other people, wouldn’t they feel some form of guilt for failing many others? We assume they should, but power is, well, a powerful tool. The final type of guilt is about being better than someone else. Modest people I assume have this type of guilt. They don’t try to be the better person, so when it happens they feel sorry for it. Some rich people, however, lack such an important part of guilt. One I wish they could acquire and put it on speed dial. But the world is what it is.
My phone makes a beep, telling me a voicemail has been left. I pick my phone up and glance at the voicemail; it was from the phone number that called twice earlier. I suppose they finally decided to leave a message. I press a button and then listen to the voicemail.
Mr. Tomlin, this is Mr. Charlton from The Colburn. We have looked over some of your recent works and it is a pleasure to inform you that we’ve taken quite an interest in you. Please call back so we can arrange a time to meet. Thank you for your time. From all of us here, we hope to hear from you soon.
I hang up the recording and then put my phone down. Well, this is unexpected. I have never thought to talk with The Colburn. They are the most popular, most exalted journal businesses to work at. They are the most controversial journal publishers as well. Why? Well, they tell like it is. They rarely have any bias strewn throughout their articles. I mull over the offer. It will definitely help my reputation. I didn’t really have one to begin with anyway. I’m somewhat of a freelancer. I write and publish my own silly articles on my blog and do speeches at nearby colleges; I basically go where I can put myself to use. This also gives me a chance to expand my horizon, seek out what other people think. Even conduct my first true experiment. A grin crosses my mouth. That’s a thought.
I sigh and then glance at my phone. I pick it up and stare at it as if it will dial itself. If I didn’t call now, I know my chance will be gone. This isn’t something I am willing to miss, to lose. After a pause I dial the number back.
“Hello, this is Mr. Charlton,” the man says, picking up after five long rings. His voice is slightly raspy, but there was a tinge of calmness.
“This is Mr. Tomlin,” I response with just as much calmness. “You left a message earlier for me.”
“Oh, yes! Thank you for calling back on the matter,” Mr. Charlton says. “We would like this process to be as quick as possible. How soon can you come?”
I think for a moment. Quick as possible, huh? That means they really are interested. So if I was the type to pretend to be busy, that alone executes any chance of getting a meeting, and even more so the job. “Today would be a fantastic day.”
“Perfect! I can tell this will already be an extraordinary meeting,” Mr. Charlton says. “Do you need the address?”
“That would be greatly appreciated,” I reply, grabbing a pen and paper from my desk.
“It’s 6715 Hofferson Street,” Mr. Charlton says. “Just tell the clerk that you have an appointment with me, and she’ll tell you where to go.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Charlton,” I say, injecting as much sincerity into my voice as I can. I must be polite, after all. “I will be over as soon as possible.”
“I expect you to be,” Mr. Charlton says, his voice taking on a more commanding tone I didn’t appreciate. “I’ll see you then.”
I hang up and put my phone down. My heart is already beating slightly faster, my mind churning with the new, high expectations brought upon me. I glance down briefly at the paper I have before me. I give a low grumble of annoyance, my mouth tilted into a deep frown. This topic is something I’m looking forward to working on. Hastily I push myself up, grabbing my phone. No, I can’t mope over not being able to research right now. This job will give me a generous reward- I will have even more time to do my research, even more accessibility to do what I need. I file the papers back into the drawer and then stuff my phone into my pocket. I grab my apple and walk out of the room. I can eat it in the car. I check to make sure I have my keys and that everything is in order. I give a satisfied nod and then unlock the door. I leave my house after locking up and get into my car. I’m soon engulfed with the somewhat soothing smell of vanilla from the pine tree car scent that hangs around my review mirror. It’s one of the few scents I like.
The address Mr. Charlton gave me is only a ten minute drive away, though in the opposite direction that Westerhedge College is in. I suppose I live in a good place. Location is everything, after all. I make the silent drive to Colburn. I rarely drive with music on; it’s too disrupting, too distracting. I can’t file my thought properly. When I arrive, I chose the first open parking spot. It’s relatively close to the entrance, so I don’t mind. I turn the car off and then get out, taking my apple with me. I bit into the apple as my eyes slowly scan the area. The tall trees keep tilting westward from the constant wind. When did it become windy? I glance down, noting the color of the parking stripes are relatively fresh. They must have redone the stripes a month or two ago. The parking lot itself was somewhat small. It seems it holds only about a hundred cars at the most. Well, with this being a prestigious workplace, why have a large parking lot? I let my eyes drift to the actual building as I take another bite. The building is six stories, the outside a bland beige color, the only color is the sign at the top in bold neon red: THE COLBURN. Other than the sign, there are a lot of windows. Surely a highly acclaimed company would establish a better looking appearance! I ‘tsk’ in exasperation, crossing my arms after taking a final bit of my apple. They fix the parking lines, but won’t tend to the appearance of the building. I take another look at the building in disapproving agreement. Perhaps it was just some kind of front they did to not draw troublemakers to their lot. It’s a long short to even suppose such a thing. I give a huff and finally walk to the entrance. I drop my apple core off into the garbage bin outside the doors and then wipe my hand on my pants. The automatic doors slide open as I stride in. The first thing I notice is the teal walls. Then, I notice the pictures hung on the walls, ranging from some form of abstract art to people I have no idea who they are (or were). My eyes lock onto a white desk where a lady seemingly to be in her early thirties is typing away at her computer. She must be the clerk Mr. Charlton spoke about. Taking another glance around, I notice besides the clerk and myself, there is only one other person here. It unnerves me slightly to see almost no people here. Then again, they could all be upstairs. I focus my gaze on the clerk again. Her hair is slightly frizzy, whether it’s natural or from stress I can’t tell. I take slow, calculated steps toward her, almost boarding on predatory in a way. I calculate it to take twelve steps to reach her, and I do in exactly twelve. She doesn’t seem to notice me; her face is intently staring at the screen, her fingers firing away on the keyboard. I don’t say anything; I want to see how long it will take for her to notice.
I take the time to look at her work space. It’s, for the most part, clean and tidy. Everything has a place with the exception of two papers she has beside her. Perhaps she’s using them at the moment. I look at the desktop she’s typing on. No photos anywhere. I find it a tad strange. People normally put some kind of photos in their workplace to make it more…comfortable. This could be a shared desk, I muse. A gasp of surprise draws my attention away from the laptop to the lady. She stares at me with a red tint on her face, from embarrassment most likely. Her eyes are slightly fearful. I frown, scrunching my nose a trifle. I haven’t done anything.
“I-I didn’t see you there, I’m sorry,” the lady says, stumbling over her words. I suppress my irritation and instead plaster a fake smile.
“It’s fine, don’t worry,” I say in a hopefully consoling voice. “I’m here to see Mr. Charlton. I have an appointment with him.”
The lady’s green eyes flash for a moment with surprise before she blinks. “Mr. Charlton is on the sixth floor, room 602. Would you like me to escort you to the elevators?”
My mind immediately crosses through the idea. Just thinking of how much more fidgeting she may get only jabs at my irritation with her. My eyes rise up to see silver elevators behind the desk.
“No thanks but I’ll manage, I’m sure,” I say finally and tap her desk twice. I stride towards the silver elevators behind her desk, not once looking back. The floor itself is highly polished. I wonder if the janitor gets paid well enough to keep the floor in such five star hotel quality. I stand between the two available elevators, eyeing the lone plant between them. It’s a fake plant. I cock my eyebrow upward at the sight. I almost laugh. This place wasn’t shaping up to be what I had come to expect. Beige outside, teal walls, a fake plant? It seems this place can pass off as a simple dentistry business. Still, I have the sixth floor to judge. I can’t make a full statement about the place until then. I press the button and the elevator on my left opens within a second of pressing the button. People must not use the elevators too much around here. I step inside and then press six. The doors close and then the elevator jolts upward. It’s a fast pace for an elevator. Almost fast enough to make me uncomfortable. Almost. I spend the short ride listening to the creaking of the elevator as it ascends, shaking slightly. The elevator gives a ding, signaling the stop on the sixth floor. It jerks to a halt and I actually stumble in response. The doors casually open and I half run, half step out of it.
The first thing that draws my attention is the gold, silver and copper wall design. Hmm, that’s interesting. I suppose the better, more experience workers were up here. There’s a gold sign in front of me showing the room. 600-610 to the left, 611-620 to the right. I was not at all curious about exploring the floor, so I tread left. The hallway has the feeling of being ‘too silent’, but I don’t pay mind to it. Silence is good. I glance at the walls as I walk down the hallways. No pictures, no plants; nothing. Just the hallway and doors. How disappointing. It should be just as bad as the first floor, but at least the first floor has decoration.
I finally arrive at room 602. This door is gold, unlike the others door I pass (which were made of silver). Part of me wants to just burst in, make an appearance. I don’t. I have to be polite, on target. Instead I eye the black number on the door and knock three times.
“Come in, come in!”
I open the golden door slowly and then step inside. I glance down to see a red and gold floral design carpet. Simple enough, I suppose. Glancing to my left I see five bookshelves in a row. Each shelf is packed with books; some books half on one another. It looks unkempt. I didn’t like it. My eyes wander upward to see a white chandelier. It looks to be glass, but I’m not sure. Maybe I can ask about it in the future.
“Ah, Mr. Tomlin. I am glad you could make it.”
My eyes travel down to who’s speaking. Mr. Charlton, sitting purposefully at his mahogany desk. His black hair is slicked ever so carefully to the side, his dark brown eyes looking calmly yet in a critical manner at me.
I give my own calm stare at him. “I’m glad I could make it.”
“Let’s get straight to it then, shall we?” Mr. Charlton says and extends his right hand to the silver chair in front of him. It’s an obvious indication for me to take a seat. So I do, instantly disliking the chair. It’s hardly comforting. Did he not wish for people to feel a bit relaxed in here? I nod for him to continue.
“I’ll make this quick. You have potential to start working on the fourth floor,” Mr. Charlton says, leaning forward. I instinctively move backward, my back now flush against the chair. The chair is becoming a tad painful. “I would like if you start working today. Only until seven. Just to see how you’ll fit in. If you don’t seem comfortable with the tasks of the fourth floor, we’ll move you down to the third floor with no problem.”
I feel my eyes narrow at the challenge, my teeth clenching. How can he talk about demotion so easily? He claims to put me at a reasonable position, and then says I’m to be demoted if I don’t show I’m up for the task? I bite back a snarl that snags in my throat. I didn’t appreciate being told I wasn’t up for a job. I keep my face calm on the outside. To fail on the first day? Now, what kind of impression would that make? Surely not one I was going to make. I give a forced half-smile. “Tell me the way and I’ll get to it.” I pressure my own authority into the statement, not nearly to be challenging, but enough to know he knows I’m not to be taken lightly.
His eyes seem to catch my tone, taking on a darker, serious look then the jovial light they had previously. “Let me escort you then.”
I rise a second after him, and then follow Mr. Charlton out of the room, noting the black bowler hat he takes with him upon exiting. As I follow behind him I take in his elongated strides, he is someone who knows what they are doing. He surely isn’t someone to challenge; that’s a realization that is coming to push heavily on me. It’s daunting. I don’t like people who are about brute authority, the kind Mr. Charlton is shaping up to be, but I can’t tell for certain. We reach the elevators and he presses the button to go down. I scowl at the thought of taking the elevator. I wish I could take the stairs down. We get in; I stay to the right, Mr. Charlton to the left. The door closes and moments later it jerks downward. My right hand grips the rail on the side, my knuckles white. Definitely never taking the elevators down. The chime sounds and the doors open moments later. I follow Mr. Charlton out and nearly gape at the sight.
The fourth floor has bright yellow walls with lively painting spread out every so often, and has actual live plants. My face instantly scowls. Of course I will be working on the “happy floor”. Just my luck. I roll my eyes and continue to follow Mr. Charlton to the right, masking my unhappiness with an amused look. We stop outside a door that had ‘415’ in black numbers. Mr. Charlton opens the orange door with a key and we step inside. The room itself is dull yellow and orange in color, with grey carpeting. Why they have carpeting is beyond me. I’m still not thrilled by the room. The size of the room is that of perhaps an average master bedroom: twelve feet by fifteen feet. I can measure the size at a later time. A medium oak desk was placed just in front of the single window in the room, which was itself large in size. At least there is a window. On the desk are standard supplies: pens, pencils, a stapler and a desktop to work on.
“You’ll find your first assignment on your desk,” Mr. Tomlin speaks up, making me turn towards him. “It must be read and sent to me by 6:45. You are to report to my room by 6:50, where I’ll review your work and tell you what will happen.”
The task seems simple enough. I know the expectations are high, however. So perhaps I shouldn’t take it as a simple task.
“I will see you at 6:50, Mr. Tomlin,” Mr. Charlton says curtly and then promptly leaves the room. I wait a few moments before breathing a sigh of relief. I’m alone. Just as I wish to be. I stretch, thinking of what I need to do. I have a little less than seven hours. I can make this work. Writing is what I excel at, after all. I saunter over to the lone bookshelf I didn’t take notice of before. My eyes skim over the options of books. “5 Ways to Improve Your Writing!”, “Writing for Dummies!”, “The Staircase to Perfect Grammar!” are just a few of the titles. It seems like a bunch of mumbo jumbo to me. Next to the bookshelf was an abstract painting made of red, blue and yellow. The blob can be taken into different accounts, depending on how you see it. However, it isn’t something for me to dwell on at the moment. I walk over to the window and raise the blinds. The fourth floor actually gives a good view of the city. This is something I am impressed with. I turn my attention to the desk and pull the chair out to sit on it. It’s a rolling chair, and it’s actually comfy. Much, much better than the silver chair in Mr. Charlton’s office. I glance down, remembering the floor is carpet. I glance briefly at the sheet of paper before my desktop. It’s a simple prompt, just asking for an opinion on a current topic I knew about. Finishing it didn’t faze me in the slightest. To me, right now, the carpet was more enjoyable. I flip of my shoes and socks, and then walk around to the other side of the desk. The carpet is incredibly soft. Why have such a soft carpet if you can’t enjoy it? I smirk and then lay down on the carpet, stretching out on my back. The carpet is almost comparable to a bed, which is something I wasn’t expecting out of a carpet. I close my eyes, allowing silence to take hold. I let out a sigh, almost content. Peace is good. Peace is what’s needed before I accomplish anything.
I hear a tentative knock at the door, forcing me to open my eyes. Surely it wasn’t Mr. Charlton; he couldn’t knock like that. “Come in!”
The door swings open and a guy steps in. I turn my head to glance up at him. He seems young, late twenties, early thirties. He has disheveled light brown hair with a few streaks of dark brown. It’s a good mixture for him. His eyes were quizzical, a rich blue, perhaps like sapphire. Seeing the guy’s face continue to be in a state of confusion makes me burst out laughing. The guys face only twists into more confusion, as to seemingly say “what the hell are you doing?”. I contain my laughter enough to stand up. My face turns into one of complete business.
“What are you here for?” I ask, straightening my shoulder, eyebrows furrowed slightly. Was this part of my work? To help people?
The guy seems slightly in shock from my change in demeanor. It takes him a moment to reply.
“I was told to give you this t-shirt,” he says, holding out a bright yellow three-fourths t-shirt. I sneer in response at the color. The shirt as well? The shirt had to be happy?
“You’re new here, right?” The guy asks, his eyes a bit wider.
I give a single nod as I take the shirt reluctantly.
“I’m in room 417. You can always come by if you want to know something or if you have a question about how something’s done,” the guys says, giving a warming smile. I could be touched by the friendliness if I actually knew him.
I stare at him for a moment. He’s wearing the too bright uniform along with black slacks. At least he can make it work. “Why yellow?”
The guy tilts his head at my question. “Do you know about the hierarchy we have here?”
“I’m aware there’s a hierarchy of some sort, but I have yet to figure it out,” I reply.
The guy places his hands on his hips. It seems almost if he’s going to lecture me. I can’t take him seriously. The pose isn’t as intimidating if that is what he’s going for. I think I can go as far to say it’s somewhat cute, even.
“Well, here each level represents some level of skill,” the guy begins. I bite back a grin. There’s the lecture. “The top floor has metallic colors. The fifth floor is a purple color. The fourth, as you know, is yellow. The third is blue, and the second is red.”
“All of those colors represent some kind of take on royalty,” I say, slightly intrigued. Someone did put thought when making this building. Kudos to them. “And the lack of paintings and plants on the sixth floor?”
The guy gives a half-heartfelt shrug. “I’m not in charge of the décor around here.”
“Fair enough,” I reply. I glance down at the shirt and resume scowling.
“It’s not the worst color,” the guy says, giving a chuckle. “You should see the red floor. It’s almost like it’s stained with blood. It’s pretty creepy, actually.”
Creepy? That’s more interesting than the fourth floor will ever be! I make a reminder to myself to head down sometime later to see the second floor.
“Oh! Name’s Tom by the way,” the guy says, holding out his hand. “Tom Fischer.”
“Logan Tomlin,” I respond, holding my own hand out to shake his. “You always this friendly?”
Tom casts a glance at the ground. “I try to be, especially around new people. I want them to feel welcome.”
Hmm. The guy wasn’t half bad. “Well, Tom, I think you’re doing a great job.”
Tom glances up at me, his eyes seemingly brighter. “Really?”
I nod. “Really really.” I twist my head to look at my desktop. “I’ll come visit you later, how about that?”
“You’d do that?” Tom asks, genuinely surprised.
“Of course,” I reply. “You guys must not get out of your offices often.”
Tom once again looks at the ground. “No, we don’t.”
I tip my head to the left. “You guys under some strict house supervision?”
Tom cracks an attempt at a smile. “Something like that.”
My mind wanders to Mr. Charlton. The more information I have, the more my dislike for him grows. He is definitely the controlling type it seems. I will have to work it into my schedule to find out how much power he actually abuses.
“Well, I’ll be going,” Tom says. “It was nice meeting you Logan.”
I give a nod of acknowledgement. “I’ll see you around, Tom.”
I watch as he exits the room, and then make my way to my desk. I pick up the piece of paper, glaring at the prompt that would either set everything into motion, or leave me wondering what I could have done better. I flex my fingers and then open a document to type. I give a sigh and then let my mind consume all thinking as I type.