I pulled myself from my thoughts a moment later, slightly more agitated and needing to distract myself. I stared down at my half-drunk cup of coffee that sat cold and untouched, my misspelt name–Clancey–sprawled in terrible handwriting across the side. I took a deep breath, closing my laptop before pushing up from the desk. I threw my too-cold coffee into the bin before heading into the cafeteria, before pulling up my messages with Thallor.
Quincey: I hate you. You always find some evil way to distract me.
Spawn of Satan: Come home. I promise this distraction is worth it ;)
And the worst part about it all was that I didn’t hate him. LikeKat Stratfordpouring her heart out toPatrick Verona,I didn’t hate Thallor. Not even a little bit,not even at all. It was infuriating and overwhelming and utterly consuming. But I couldn’t find a way to shut him out with everything that had happened. There was no tower I could build around myself that he wouldn’t climb. The more I thought about him, the more he seemed to take hold of every one of my waking thoughts, gripping my every emotion like a vice until I wore them in blushed cheeks and shy smiles and breath that seemed just ever so slightly too far out of reach.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The pattering sound of rain began to dissipate as I trudged down the stairs into the basement of the Cedar Ridge library. My footsteps echoed against the laminate flooring as I walked into the cafeteria, red-faced and unable to escape the sinful thoughts of Thallor continuing to taunt me. Save for the murmuring of a few people and the TV, hooked to the wall, playing quietly in the background, the cafeteria was relatively quiet. But I suppose that was to be expected given that it was around six pm on a Friday, meaning people were out doing the typical thing to do on a Friday–socialise–gross.
I allowed my eyes to glance around the room in a desperate and fleeting attempt to distract myself from where my thoughts had been only moments ago. I looked over to the far side of the room, where a group of older people were having a rather heated discussion. Whether it was religion or politics, I wasn’t sure, but I was certain it was inappropriate chatter for their proverbial dinner table discussion. They appeared to be lecturers, although none I knew by either face or name. A stiff man ina tweed suit proceeded to roll his eyes at the rotund, bald man to his left before scoffing and stalking away from the table.
“Excuse me?” I whipped my head around to the freckled-faced person behind the counter. “Miss? Are you ordering or not? You’re holding up the queue.”
I didn’t even realise I was in the queue.
Rather abruptly, I was pulled out of my momentary paralysis to find two other people waiting to order behind me; a third person was approaching from where they had just picked up a refrigerated sandwich. I grimaced, holding my hands up and offering everyone one too many awkward apologies before approaching the till.
“Hi there, sorry about that. I’ll just take an oat milk latte, please.” I stumbled over a few more apologies, flashing the till worker with my best ‘I totally get it, people, eh?’expression. As they turned around to relay the order, I came to the realisation that I probably should have asked for hotter milk. And before I knew it, I couldn’t stop the socially-inept and uncomfortable-for-everyone-involved word vomit that seemed to spew from my mouth. “Oh gosh, sorry, I amsosorry. Could you actually make that oat milk extra hot? I can’t seem to drink any of my coffee fast enough to stop it from getting cold. You know how it is, knee deep in assignments and all. Or maybe you don’t? Um, well, anyway, this is like the third time I’ve had to come down here today to get a new one. You would have thought I would have learnt by now, but no. Oh, and maybe whilst you are at it, could I get some vanilla syrup?”
From the look he was giving me, I could tell I’d just made some kill-on-site list used by baristas all around the world–one for their most insufferable customers. I laughed awkwardly, pushing my impending and totally valid death to the back of my mind as the man behind the counter continued to stare at me. In the flurry of rising adrenaline and anxious energy, I laughedagain. Louder and more unhinged than before. Because obviously this man didn’t care about me or my life story, and he certainly wasn’t interested in an auditory rendition of the first draft of mycold coffeethesis. With my dignity dragging behind me, I stalked away from the till and waited by the side alongside the cardboard slips and wooden sticks.
I’d never really understood why they’d put the cafeteria in the basement. The original building hadn’t had any amenities in place that would have been suitable for food preparation, meaning some building surveyor–or whoever’s responsibility to decide–had made an active choice to put the dining room in the basement. Not only was it dark, meaning the fluorescent lighting was oppressive, but the broadband afforded to every other floor in the building, for some infuriating reason, didn’t reach down here. Whether that was due to poor range or by design, there was very little to do in the cafeteria besides question the origin of the mystery meat in the sandwiches, argue about politics or religion with colleagues, or watch the reruns of news highlights that played perpetually throughout the day.
I glanced up at the TV and spotted an impeccably dressed man with long dark hair and a beard sitting on a panel next to what looked like a talk show host or morning news reporter. I’d never been able to fully rationalise how people were able to watch these shows. They were cringey and forced and always seemed to push some backward agenda instead of focusing on real-world issues. But with the lack of phone signal and Freckles McGee shooting me death stares from behind the counter, I really had no other option but to stand there and watch.
“We are a community, and we welcome people from all walks of life,” the long-haired man started. “Any of those who are lost can find the light.”
“Is this like another sect of Christianity?” a stunning woman, who clearly led the panel, asked. Her hair was sleekedback in a professional up-do, and she was wearing a bright yellow blazer that contrasted perfectly with her complexion. I was instantly enthralled by her as her disdainful gaze roved over the man in front of her. The scepticism in her voice was palpable. And in her defence, if I’d been sitting across from a man like that, I would have been a little wary too.
I mean, the man was nothing short of unsettling. His eyes were hollow, devoid of warmth, and his leer felt like it stretched out through the television, assaulting the primitive part inside me that detected trouble or danger. I tried not to judge people by their appearance, but I could tell instantly from looking at him that there was something deeply wrong about this man–and this wasn’t accounting for the hideous, bright lime-green blazer he wore. A colour that had me blinking and crinkling my eyes at the corners.
God, what was that Disney movie again? The one with the lost princess and the long-haired villain that wouldn’t die.Because if he did in the movie, he’d been reincarnated as the man I saw on the television screen.
The host cleared her throat. In the abrasive sound and the hard-set expression on her face, I knew that she could feel that same grimy, uncomfortable feeling that I did. The one that had writhed its way into every crevice of my being. It was even worse whenRasputin–ah, yes, that was the movie–scowled in response to her previous comment.
“We aren’t a sect of Christianity. The Church of the Black Sun believes in something real,” he spat. “We believe in something tangible. We work off the belief that selfishness is the route to all happiness.”
What the actual fuck, Isaac? What the actual fucking fuck? What the actual fucking fuck, you stupid fuck, Isaac?
My hands instinctively reached out for the table beside me as I grasped for something to steady myself against the range ofemotions suddenly coursing through my body. In the process, the cardboard coffee slips and wooden stirrers went flying. I stood in a humiliating circle of caffeine-related accessories before looking up atFreckles,knowing I’d just made a lifelong enemy. And as much as I wanted to care, I couldn’t. I picked up the loose bits, shoving them into the trash before looking up at the screen again.
“Selflessness, you mean?”
“No,selfishness. It’s not selfishness in the way you might think, though. We don’t promote being unkind or unfair. However, many people fall into the trap of people-pleasing, letting themselves be walked all over, and side-lining their own happiness. A lot of people come to us wanting to break that cycle. Wanting to know how they can prevent others from hindering their achievements. We teach our followers the importance of focusing on their own goals, desires, and dreams. Because there’s so much to be gained by embracing your true aspirations.”
“Right…” was all the television host could say in response as she watched the man wearily. A crooked smile crawled its way onto his face in a slow, calculated manner. But it was only when the smile fell short of his eyes and my pulse rang out in my ears that I truly grasped how terrifying he was.
I mean, seriously, what the fuck did you say to something as ludicrous as that? Yes, people pleasing is not something that should ever be encouraged, but I couldn’t help but feel like this…this cult–for lack of a better word–was encouraging its vulnerable followers to blame the people around them for their lack of achievement or perceived success.
“Through our teachings, many of our followers have found wealth and power beyond their wildest dreams.”And I bet you are making a fortune, you fucking parasite.
The host remained unconvinced, but in the short span oftime this man had continued to spew his manipulative bullshit, the confusion inside me had hardened. And in its wake, leaden and unfiltered rage.
“And how did you come up with this…uh…philosophy?”
Say it how it is, babe. I know con job or ponzi scheme just doesn’t have the same sellable, melodic ring to it.
