Mount Veracity

Prologue

According to the Oxford Dictionary, an office is 'a room, set of rooms, or building used as a place for commercial, professional, or bureaucratic work'.

According to me, it was a home better than one I had.

Now, as I shook myself off the desk chair, I wondered how on Earth did I end up here in the first place. I tried to sit up, but a sudden whirr in my head forced me to lay my head back once again.

Oh.

The whirr in my head continued, and amidst the chaos of the brain, I heard short thumps. Short, rigid thumps that seemed to settle down themselves within the nook of my ear. I don't know where they are coming from, and I don't know how to shut them up, so I held my hands against my ears.

The sounds increase.

I suddenly feel a damp, burning sensation in my throat; one that I haven't had in a long time. I do something that I am not supposed to, an instantly regret it.

I cough.

As my hand dropped from my ears to my mouth, and then pulled away, I see the red again. Absurdly pulling out a handkerchief through the hem of my pocket, I wiped my b****y hand with it, and then proceeded to wipe my mouth.

Now, the blood was all over my lips, my chin, my hand and a fresh handkerchief.

I tried to sit up once again, and this time, succeeded. I held my clean hand out and slapped it onto the table in front of me. Leaning forward, I attempted to balance my vertebrae one on top of the other, and breathed in. But as I did, all I felt go down my throat was blood.

I wanted to sob now, but if I began, I'd be a sputtering mess of snot and spit and red within sixty seconds. All I could do was try to call for help.

And so, I shut off my emotion packet and wheeled the chair forward, reaching towards the landline. I didn't remember the new number she set up two weeks ago, and went on to speed dial the reception. It was picked up immediately.

"Uh...good morning...Miss Osman?"

"Yeah, that's me," I gurgled. f**k my voice.

"Can you...can you send in Perveza please? I am unable to reach her," I lied, waiting for her to respond.

"Yes ma'am, oh wait-" her next words were more of a scream- "MISS WAZEER! HERE! Miss Osman for you."

Perhaps the receptionist caught her while she was entering. My vision was blurring now. I looked up at the wall clock.

Something like 7:20 a.m.

"What the hell, Osman?" That bombshell shouted through my eardrums on the line.

"Come up. Guess I am dying tonight," I blabbered, and coughed up some more blood. Now, it dripped onto my dress shirt.

Well, s**t.

The next I knew, my door was being pounded on.

"f**k you, you workaholic bossy...boss! At least open the door!" She screamed. I stood up, then fell to my knees. My head hit the arm of the chair and began throbbing wildly. I didn't reply to her continuous cursing.

Man, I didn't know she had that side too.

"Thank Almighty I have spares," I hear her murmuring and a tinkle of keys rapping against the metal pad lock. From my shitty vision, I see her opening the door and coming inside, and dropping her purse.

I cough up more red vomit.

"What the...hell," she murmured, gathering her purse in a haste and coming towards me. I heard her toss the goddamn shocking pink thing on my table and drop to my level. She pulled out her phone from her pocket and immediately dialed her poor soulmate, all while continuously wiping my face with tissues.

"Yeah, come up quick...no, it's not me you gobbletrot...Osman's become a goddamn red fountain...shit yeah...no don't call them...okay, okay," I hear the beep ending the call and she now pulled me closer to herself. She pulled my eyelids upwards.

"f**k, Perveza, everything's on fire," I mutter.

"You never call me that," she scowls, even when I am dying. She's pissed because I call her Pyjamas all the time and called her by her name now- but anyways, that's a story for if and when I do survive.

Do I employ people to order them around, or for them to order me around?

Wow.

"You never curse," I retort. My eyes have gone to sleep now, they are shut. Just like the doors of my heart and soul.

"God, Osman, stay with me!" she screams in my ear.

"I am, I am." But my eyes are closed. The burning feeling is subsiding slowly, tempting me to keep my eyes closed for longer.

"No, wait...look at her!" Perveza slaps my cheek. Now we are entangled in a dirty embrace full of my blood and sweat, and I am leaning in her chest.

Mm. Fresh bath.

I try to stay awake as she tells me. Blink a few, clutch tight the olive leather jacket with my fingers. But then, I saw flowers.

I saw her.

Momma.

'Let go.'

And so I let go.

The last thing I hear is a 'f**k' from Perveza Wazeer, the secretary of mine who wears pyjamas to work and never cursed around.