Chapter 8: The Basement
The walls are bland. The white paint is chipped and worn, and the baseboards are covered with tiny black smudges of dirt. I just sit and wait for that man to return with nothing but the letter I wrote in my hand.
I need to check my voicemails, my bank accounts, the market, everything. I remember all the research I had done for Mr. Gates, my new client and the big meeting that I missed, which at this point seems like years ago. Panic sets in, I know that my damn company is surely falling apart by now. And I am the only one with the proper knowledge to keep it running. I knew I should have come up with a better disaster plan! I only have so much time before it tanks! I can taste the failure. I can even smell it. Time is running out . . . I can just hear the ticking of the clock . . . tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. The word, bankruptcy slowly slips into my mind. Oh God, no!
I need a cigarette. I check my pockets. Nada. I smoked all of them in the casino.
I mean seriously, just how long have I been inside my soul? Weeks? Months? Years?
Every minute that goes by seems slower than the first. It’s like a slow tortuous burn. And all of my time on earth is just whisking away into some black hole in the universe, while I remain trapped inside my very own soul—