Job Related Stress

“Target acquired, requesting permission to proceed...(if the premises is clear, you may proceed) ... acknowledged.. (wait, if you proceed and there are witnesses, use stealth (and caution) that goes without saying (just making sure, wise one)) ...(hey, can you describe the world you are on for our archives)... I am preoccupied right now ... (just a synopsis of what it looks like) ... I am blind ... (oh, tarnation..) (Are you really going through with this?) (Of course he is, whether he succeeeds is an entirely different question. He won't..) (Who are you?) (None of your concern. I'm his mother.) I need to concentrate. (Oops, I'll be quieter.) (Don't give in to his weaknesses, if he can't do his work while listening to a few voices, he should just slit his throat.) ( slit your throat) ... (Keep on your mission.) (slit your throat) (slit...) (dance with your blood) (Are you listening?) ... eh.. (blood... slit... dance...) (Are you listening!) (death awaits... dance... slit ... death. ... blood) ....”

The words wrapped around his brain. His brain started shutting down his consciousness. Blood started to seep from his nose. His body pitched around helplessly, seizing. The words kept reverberating. The talking would not cease, until it filled up his head and it exploded.

Reality seeps back to him slowly. A pool of bile-and-blood-flavoured liquid rests in his cheek. He tries to spit it out, but his coordination is slow and unresponsive. His eyelids seem caked shut. His mind mulls over whether it might be mucus or blood sealing them, but they can be dealt with later. The voices have shut up. If he acts awake and aware, they will start up again. He remains quiet, still, unmoving, unthinking, so they don't sense him.

Hands grab at him. They rip open his eyelid and yell questions at him. His mind shuts them out too. They pull at his clothes and pick through his pockets. Sirens blare. He lets the world continue. He does not let himself move, think, or hear. He barely breathes.

~~~~~

“Sir, your butler is on the line.”

Michael looked up at his executive assistant.

“My butler?”

Yolanda nodded quickly. Michael hit the speaker button. “Yes, Gilbert?”

“It's Holmes, sir.”

“Yes, Holmes.”

“Your brother is in hospital in San Francisco.”

“San Francisco? Wasn't he in bed this morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

Michael rubbed his forehead. “Yolanda, I need my jet ready to head to California.”