Gatsby | Wanda M.

Five: Day 310

"Here you are," he said, stopping by the aisle of staple guns and the like. James fixed another smile to his face and stepped back as he spoke again. "If you need anything else, just let me or another employee know."

The couple nodded, thanked him, and James whirled away around the corner. The smile fell, a scowl fixed in its place as he made his way to the front counter again. Sandy, a woman in her late thirties with stringy auburn hair, passed by with a nod and whispered greeting, dressed in the drab gray uniform that had the Ten Tools logo embroidered on the chest pocket. He answered with his usual nod.

She paid it no mind as it was, after all, all they knew him for there. This job was at the bottom of his list for options when he started looking after his discharge, but it at least lined up with his degree for construction and architecture more than most did. The money wasn't bad, and it paid for his psychologist. So it would do.

Once he reached the front counter, James took a seat and began looking over that day's logs, charts, and numbers pertaining to what they had in stock and what they needed to order. It was mundane work but steadied his mind as the pencil scratched and soothed parts of his mind that never quite stopped itching.

But a passing conversation over that day's date had him pausing.

"Shit. What's the date again?"

"Tomorrow's the first of September so... the thirty first? Are there thirty or thirty one days in August?"

"Thirty-one, I think."

"So the thirty-first."

"Wow, I didn't realize."

"Shut it, smartass."

They laughed and something heavy and loaded in memories settled in his gut. His shoulders tensed and every muscle reacted much the same, tense and shaking and so fucking heavy in it all. James tried to go back to counting out how many goddamn hammers they needed to order, he really did. But something creaked in his hand. And with a resounding snap, the pencil fell apart in his clenched fingers.

James blinked back to himself and heaved a sigh. Leaning sideways in his chair, he dropped the broken pencil into a nearly empty trash can. Only to stop short and trade the pieces for a paper. Black and white, thin and uncomfortably soft beneath his fingers as he ran them around the edges to smooth the wrinkles throughout, it was the picture on the front page that caught his attention.

More so, it was the unmistakable painting someone had made of him. The mask, cold eyes he saw reflected in theirs, and a swarming darkness filling in the gaps and spaces. His jaw ticked when he was able to make out the red lettering a little off to the side.

"Pain."

Something so out of context. Threatening to a casual observer all the same. And yet without any need of context to speak to what it meant.

At least it took his mind off of that conversation and that day and the ones to follow and what they meant...

Something moved in his peripheral and his head shot up. Setting the paper atop the other of scribbled tallies and his new life's shit work, James stood and stepped closer to the window beside the front desk. As usual the streets bustled and a fair bit of trash blew in the wind, but cars didn't usually loiter in this area. James watched the all-black vehicle back into an alleyway and park. With a glance behind him, he stepped closer till his breath fogged on the glass and he could see the shine of a man's shoes when he stepped from the vehicle.

It was only two to step out, but alarm bells rang in his mind without warning. Weight settled on his tongue and his throat dried. The two men, dressed in suits in a way that seemed obviously for necessity rather than pleasure, made their way into the alley behind them. James swerved back into the shadows of a nearby cabinet as the taller of the two scanned the street behind him as they went. His heartbeat thudded in his ears.