...and Answers

My heart stops.

Maybe not literally, but it goddamn feels like it.

I get a feeling in my gut. Not a good one; it's like my insides have fallen out of me. It feels familiar, but that isn't comforting.

I feel my blood drain from my face.

Every little sound in this room is amplified up to 11. I don't even know what "up to 11" means or comes from, but in this context, I think I get it.

All in all, I want to throw up on the nice burgandy carpet. The nice blood-red carpet. The carpet the colour of blood. Blood carpet. Carpet blood. Blood. Blo--

I vomit on it anyway. Screw the niceties, screw this situation, screw this smug fuck in front of me - I'll vomit on his carpet, and if he doesn't like it, he can go fuck himself.

I wipe my mouth with my sleeve, take some breaths, and stare at the man behind the table.

"What do you mean?"

I ask the question, but my body's reaction is a good indication that I already know the answer.

"_This is your plan_. _This is all_ your _plan_. _Right up to this very moment_..."