'in which you walk to the mailbox'
It felt like hours before you were finally able to write out your return letter to Vivian. You weren't happy with it. Not by a long shot. But it was sealed in an envelope now and out of your hands. Metaphorically at least. You still had to go down the dust and mould-coated stairwell to actually mail the thing. For now, though, you were spinning in your office chair, blowing time.
You groan slightly as the chair comes to a stop. You push yourself around once more, staring up at the ceiling as you spin. The boredom now overtaking you was unreal. Even if boredom was becoming one of your incessant norms, it was still unnecessarily overwhelming. Maybe it was just the whiplash from going from feeling too much to feeling nothing at all that was bothering you to the extent that it was.
You stare at the white ceiling for what feels like ages. At some point you pull your feet up onto the chair, sitting with your legs close to your chest. Maybe Layla would have something for you to do? Or maybe you should just go back to the apartment early. Not like you're doing anything anyway.
Leaning your head back toward the ceiling, you drape an arm over your head. A heavy sigh slips from your lips as you anguish in the silence. It felt like a heavy pressure pushing down on you from all angles. Almost suffocating in its nature. Suffocating and miserable.
Questions upon questions have been piling onto you. Unrelenting in the way they nag you when you can't find a way to busy your hands. Unrelenting even when you can busy your hands. You wish life could be simple, just the machine, rather than all of the moving parts that come with it. Even in the past couple of weeks, it feels like so much has been abruptly dropped on your plate with no semblance of an explanation of what you're meant to do with it.
America had gone from trusting you with personal information to being closed off and barely talking to you to give you work to do, to not even doing that! Not to mention that the states are beginning to arrive en mass for the meeting that's meant to happen at the end of the month. And there's that Daniel character who's just a bit more suspicious of you than you'd like. He's probably the least of your concerns right now though. Which is saying a lot considering your situation.
You let out a groan, dropping your feet off the chair. You feel like you're going stir-crazy. You wish you still had the structure that came with university. At least then you could be busying yourself with something, instead of driving yourself up the wall with how confusing your life has become. However, if you were still at university your life would probably be marginally less confusing than it is now. A girl can only dream and your dreams have been replaced with restless night after restless night.
You finally get up from your chair, taking your letter to Vivian in your hand as you make your way out of the office. You might as well just drop this into a mailbox already. It's better than wasting away in your boredom.
You walk down the stairs, trying to ignore the billowing of dust that you kick up. You feel like it's gotten worse since the first few times you've walked these stairs if that's even possible. Does this place even have a janitor? Or a janitor's closet? You should seriously hunt it down if it does exist. Not that you'd even know where to start cleaning the incessant amount of dust. And that doesn't even consider the mould growing on the walls. That would probably need more work than you're willing to put in. You just sigh as you push out of the stairwell. Another problem for another day.
You stare at the envelope in your hand. Your eyes scan it over, checking for any inaccuracies in the address and making sure the envelope is sealed properly. A tense hum slips from you as you walk down the hall, looking for the building's exit as you go.
It was surprisingly quiet in the long halls. There weren't many people milling around, going to and from offices. People who were actually doing their jobs. Unlike you. At least you're able to pretend that you're working. You suppose that fights off a bit of the guilt you were facing.
When you step outside, your body shivers reflexively. It was freezing. More so than you had been expecting initially. You suppose that's to be expected in mid-January. That fact doesn't make the chill any more pleasant to deal with. You let out a sigh, sounding as bitter as the cold you were currently faced with.
You begin making your way down the snowy walkway at the front of the building. Once you get out to the main street, you take a left. As you walk down the sidewalk, you fiddle with the envelope still in your hands, eyes flitting around the area at every little sound. The cold was putting you on edge. Thankfully your walk was short.
When you touch the metal surface of the mailbox you almost flinch back from the frozen surface. You probably should have expected it to be that cold. It was metal, and already covered in a layer of frost. Once you slide your envelope inside you quickly pull away, rubbing your cold fingers with your other hand.
You stare at the mailbox for a moment, letting your hands drop to your sides. The tips of your fingers are cold. It was certainly one hell of a cold day... You take a breath, eyes focusing on the fog that results from the action.
"What am I even doing..." Your voice was breathy as you spoke, nothing more than a quiet mumble as you stare at the frost-bitten mailbox in front of you. You kind of want to kick it, but you'd rather not fall and land flat on your ass in the snow. You're cold enough as is.
With a hefty sigh, you turn and begin walking back toward the building. It was a slow walk. You were stalling. You wish for nothing more than to never step back into that building ever again. But no one was around to answer that wish for you. Only the silence and the bitter, bitter cold met your senses.
It makes you want to yell. If only you had someplace to lay your frustrations bare for the world to see. Maybe not though. Maybe you just want to go home instead.
You put a hand on the door of the building for a moment. The door held an equal coldness to the mailbox. Less frosty, but still bitingly cold. You pulled the door open without a second thought. You'd rather not become frostbitten yourself.
Stepping inside from the cold, your hands flood with a burning warmth. You shake your hands out, ignoring the sensation otherwise as you begin a familiar trek through the halls. This repetition is going to kill you. Not that your life wasn't repetitive before but at least you still knew what the hell was going on. And you didn't feel completely and utterly alone then. That too.
You barely register walking up the stairs. You cough slightly as the dust your steps kick up billows upwards into your face. But otherwise, you don't react. No anger at the state of it, despite your immense frustrations that seem to be plaguing you at the moment. You just silently head to your office, turning the lock as you shut the door behind you.
You stand still in your office for what feels like an eternity. Staring into nothing, your frustrations begin to waver, spindling away into something that you can't find yourself placing. Not to say you haven't felt it before. You're quite familiar with the heavy pit that seems to gnaw away at your insides. Similar to your anger, but not the same. Not in the slightest.
You don't know what you feel. Not as your fingers run over the surface of your desk. Not as you slump down in the office chair. Not as you spin to the side, staring into the empty walls of the room.
It feels suffocating. Suffocation isn't exactly an emotion though. It feels like a pit that just grows and grows and twists and turns without a single semblance of placeable sense. It's nagging. It's the only thing you can focus on. It feels all-consuming. Almost in the same vein of a dull pain, oscillating with a surprising resilience. Not to say it's painful, however. It's just endlessly, endlessly nagging. Nagging you with its uncertainty. Nagging you with your uncertainty.
You slouch back in your chair, staring at the ceiling. You don't know what you're feeling and you don't think you'll ever know what you're feeling again. Maybe you'll know it some days. You think you have before. But uncertainty is a steep spiral, and you're already near the bottom.
Your foot pushes across the ground, gently spinning your chair. Not fast enough to make you dizzy. Not in the slightest. Just slow and meandering and so utterly boring. A low, grating groan slips out of your mouth, rolling harshly off your vocal cords, rough and harsh. You're a damn mess. And you don't know how to clean it up.
It's like you're falling apart. Every little thing that has ever supported you as a person is being stripped away from you, piece by piece. The walls of your existence were crumbling with each and every day. Each and every issue that you're faced with. All your aspirations are now so far out of reach and you're helpless to even reach for them. Not with how brutally you've been uprooted and how poorly you were replaced.
You still haven't figured out how you're here. Or why. You guess it's just one poor decision after another with you. All of this was of your own volition, for the most part. Maybe not getting stuck in the past and definitely not getting abducted off the streets, but you've still made your choices. And now you're still surprised that you hate everything about the situation that you're in. You could have left this office building. Left America and all his shit behind. So why didn't you?
Another groan slips from your lips. This one is softer. Less grating on your vocal cords. Why didn't you leave? Why did you choose to stay? What in your foolish mind possessed you to stay with the man who threatened to kill you? What was it?
You think back to that day, staring at the ceiling with your one foot planted firmly on the ground. America had apologized to you, but you didn't accept it. You still haven't, especially not with how he's been borderline ignoring you. He said he'd prove himself if you stayed. A task he's failed to accomplish this far. Maybe it's part of why you stayed, but certainly not the whole picture.
You sigh softly, still staring at the ceiling. Dreary, like every other surface in this damn building. You rub the bridge of your nose, sitting up in your seat with a begrudging huff. The air in the room was still, unmoving, as you try to wrap your head around all of this. An unrelenting task it seems. Maybe someday you'll know what everything means. How you got tossed almost a century into the past. The reason you chose to stay here, working in this office that you should have left the moment you got the chance. You shake your head. Somehow, at the end of this, you find yourself slightly amused. You really need to get your shit together. Maybe someday.
Leaning back again, you begin spinning in your chair once again. The ceiling distorts in a weak spiral in your vision. You drape your arm over your eyes. Maybe the brief darkness would help you get a hold on the mess of your thoughts. You doubt it though.