Chapter 7
Millie; February 22nd, 7:24 P.M.
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I let the crowd of people that have flocked around me peel me off the sticky floor as my mind swirls with questions. How does Cy know my name? Why is he here? Why did he care that I got knocked out? If he can take four guys out in less than five seconds, how hasn’t he caught me? It’s clearly deliberate. Does he know who I am? Should I just leave now? No— eyes on the prize (-es. There are multiple). If he wanted to catch me, he would have by now. If he is letting me win, which is an indescribably humbling concept that a part of me wishes isn’t true, that means he’s probably planning to let me go squat-free again. Doesn’t make me feel like as much of a girlboss, but I guess money is money. Even if it means living solely by the will of a man’s mercy. God, I hate this job.
I put on a shameful smile and thank everyone around me for helping, assuring them that I’m fine. There’s a second degree burn on my back shaped like a handprint. So what? I’m fine. My skin doesn’t feel like it’s going to fall off like melted wax. Whatttt? Noooo…
Okay, I’m done. I just needed to complain. I also, admittedly, didn’t really mess with the whole ‘creepy men hitting on me’ thing. I’ll probably have an emotional meltdown about that when I get home, but we’ll save it for when I’m off the job.
I stand up, grab my purse from a very kind looking woman, even though at this point everyone’s kind of blending together in my mind and they all look like sad puppies now, and walk in the direction of the bathroom.
It’s one of the nicest public bathrooms I’ve ever seen. The floor is made out of shiny marble, and the air smells entirely like rose perfume. There’s only two other girls in here, and they’re both washing their hands. At least they’re not looking at me like puppies. Just as I squeeze that thought out of my pea-brain, one of them finishes and casts me a pitying look when she passes me on her way out. Did I mention how much this sucks? Great. I silently continue towards the stalls, my heels clacking on the floors, and try not to slam the stall door shut out of anger when I finally get inside.
Thankfully, the stalls are more like rooms. Gone are the annoying, privacy infringing gaps underneath the doors, and here are nice, sturdy walls. Perfect for getting ready to rob an auction. I hang my purse on the hook attached to the door (yet another ingenious invention made by man), and scramble into my leggings, pull my sweater over my head, and struggle with my cloak. For an actual real-life villain, you’d think I’d be a little more coordinated.
Nope. Actually, I almost fall flat on my face, slipping on some unforeseen fabric, and barely manage to steady myself with the wall. Once I’m done, I shove my old clothes into my purse and open my phone. Zero messages, apart from one from Jackie, who’s graciously sent me an image of an IKEA end table. It’s 7:35, and the auction starts in ten minutes. Squatted in the bathroom stall, I devise my next moves carefully; …all while seriously considering giving up, because Cy wasn’t supposed to be here. I mean, how am I supposed to face him after last time? Images of me, shirtless, cold, and embarrassed on a rooftop flash through my mind and I visibly shudder. For now, I choose to live in the present.
The plan lays out in an imaginary scrapbook-style animation in my head; I’m going to wait until a few minutes after it starts, sneak out of the stall (hiding my purse behind a potted plant that sits next to the bathroom sink & hoping to god that nobody takes it), pickpocket a guard for his ID badge, scan said badge on the employees-only door I saw on a google image of the auction house, and run backstage. Then, I’ll steal something when nobody’s looking.
The scrapbook in my head shuts with a large puff of dust for dramatic effect. Okay, so I don’t know how well this is actually going to work, but what other option do I have? I sit on my phone, making sure to leave Jackie on delivered out of spite, until it’s well past the time I’d heard the announcer begin the auction. Then, I take a deep breath in to suck in the last of my fresh air for the hour and pull my mask over my mouth.
When I walk out of the stall, I’m no longer Millie. My every step is calculated, my every movement is carefully chosen, and I’m not letting my embarrassing moment from last time deter me. I slip my purse behind the plant and sneak out of the (thankfully) empty women’s restroom. From the bathroom, I peer around the doorframe and immediately turn left, headed into the back-halls. I make it halfway down the first hall before veering right towards an employees-only door that sits at the end of a hallway. If I’m right, nobody should be back here. Employees have likely taken to busying themselves with catering and other services to make sure the event runs smoothly; none of which I can think of would take place back here.
And yet…
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It’s an unmistakable feeling, and I recognize it immediately; Someone’s following me. At first, it’s just a hunch. But then I start to hear. Clacking shoes that aren’t mine (I know this because I swapped my heels out for tennis shoes), faint breathing, and the distinct shuffle of clothing.
I don’t have to look back to guess who it is. I knew I should have given this one up the second I found out Cy knew my name. Actually, I should have left the second I found out Cy was here in the first place. Now, I’m basically fucked. I keep my back turned to him, making sure he thinks I’m unaware of his presence. My posture is comfortable, my steps light, and I even throw in a casual arm stretch for good measure. Inside my head, though, my mind is racing.
He won’t stop me— he hasn’t, even though he’s been fully capable this whole time. This time isn’t any different, and I have nothing to worry about. So why am I so nervous?
I fight back the chill creeping up my bone as I approach the door with practiced ease, forcing myself not to hesitate before grabbing the handle. When I open the door, it’s just as quiet as it was in the hallway, save for the steps behind me growing marginally louder and slower. This is weird; Cy’s normally not this sloppy.
Without hesitation, I veer to my left, running toward the first object I see— a necklace with a comically large, glowing amulet. By the time I’ve grabbed it, the footsteps behind me are dead silent. Gone.
I turn around to see, as expected, Cy standing there. We just stand there, staring at each other. Seconds pass. Minutes. Hours. Okay, maybe not hours. He seems… tense. No, that’s not it. Drunk? High? His eyes are blank; his stance eerily limp. Something’s off. Really off.
“Geez, how many drugs did you take?” I’m smiling, but I think I might actually be concerned. He doesn’t look sick, but his hoodie looks a little… ragged. Wait, wasn’t he wearing a suit? “And what happened to the suit? Is that the same hoodie from the museum? Seriously?” At this point, I’m only asking questions to fill the silence. He gives no response, just stands there, staring.
A voice sounds from close behind me, eerily close to my neck. “I don’t do drugs,” I whirl my head around, twisting my body backward and almost falling over in the process, placing my hand over my heart to steady it. “And that,” Cy points at… Cy. I turn around— the only thing that sets them apart is that one of them is in a suit, and the other in a hoodie & sweatpants. This is weird. Definitely not something I put on my new years prediction card. “Isn’t me.” He finishes, placing his hand back in his pocket.
I stand there for a while, darting my eyes between the two. Which one’s real? Are they both fake? Is this a prank? Do I just grab the necklace and run? Hoodie-Cy opens his mouth from across the room, slowly inching closer. “What are you talking about?” He says, “It’s me, Gloom. You know me.”
Okay, definitely not. First of all, ‘Gloom’? Cy hasn’t called me anything but ‘G’ or ‘Stupid’ in years. Second, we’ve never been that friendly with each other. The real Cy wouldn’t care if I knew him or not. I think. Also, he’s walking like he’s hesitant; like he’s unsure where to place his feet. Cy doesn’t walk like that; he floats. It’s actually annoying— I don’t think I've ever so much as seen him stumble. I make a mental note to beat myself up later for submitting this all to memory.
“Right, so…” now that I know who’s real, I decide it doesn’t really matter anyway. I need to run. Without so much as a second thought, I take off towards the exit door to my left, necklace in hand. While I'm running, I catch an end table in the corner of my eye. Sorry, Jackie; maybe next time. Fake Cy takes off after me like a monster in a horror movie, all while real Cy simply looks at the ceiling in frustration, as if he's rethinking his life decisions. Then, after a moment, he snaps his head back to normal, before taking in the situation at hand, sighing, and quickly catching up to fake Cy. As he passes him, he flings him across the room and binds him to the wall with a simple flick of his wrist. Why do I fight with this guy, again?
I force open the exit with the side of my body, my back still searing in pain from Mr. Hothands from earlier; Quick, someone get that guy on a handwarmers commercial. Anyway, at this point, I expect Cy to conveniently let me go like he always does, but when I turn to look over my shoulder, his pace hasn’t slowed down in the slightest.
Not a good sign. It’s fine; I’m fine. He catches up to me and grips my arm, yanking me backwards involuntarily. Right? My thoughts begin to slow.
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“Sorry,” is all I hear from behind as the light of the world falls before me like a scythe, leaving me in a complete darkness; somewhere completely outside of my own conscious.
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and then Add to home screen.