His Colossal Mistake #justwriteit

Chapter 11 Part 1 Nightmare

Kalila ->

"Forgiving yourself is far more important than getting others to forgive you."-

How could he still be living? I was so oblivious!

Sevastyan is my responsibility; and yet, I was ignorant about what is right in front of me.

I woke up three times during the night after realizing that I am an awful care-taker. I lie awake until the sun rises after the third nightmare. If Sevastyan could handle electrocution dexterously, then maybe the torture is not too extreme?

I exchange my morning run for a room workout before preparing for the day. Sticking on my diamond earrings and securing my bun, I grab two apples from downstairs.

"We must be off," I pout and toss Sevastyan the extra apple. "If you are ever hungry, you can grab anything, anytime you want," I say politely and quickly stress, "human food. Not humans."

Sevastyan promptly follows me out of the apartment. My heels click on the ground, and I pull down my pencil skirt as I walk.

I check the sticky note with the address and dump it back in my purse. Of course the ladies would schedule this in a posh neighborhood.

I may reside in the upper class, but I refuse to act like a pretentious fool. I truly care about my aspiration, while the majority of the upper class are opportunists. I trudge past my car and head to the train station to prove my individuality.

"The train is the most common form of transportation now-a-days," I inform Sevastyan. "The community is too large for everyone to own a vehicle; but the upper class is privileged. So if you see anyone with a car," I look at him pointedly, "avoid them at all costs."

We stand awkwardly in the middle of the train, and I feel extremely lucky with the lack of crowds. Less people means less encounters with Sevastyan. We exit on the first stop and walk down the road to our fancy destination.

The restaurant's pretentious décor is enough to chase me off. There is a constant battle for attention between each flashy decoration and I want nothing more than to turn around and escape the tacky location.

"Wait out here," I tell Sevastyan and cautiously enter. The collar Sevastyan wore would disturb the delicate environment.

"Adrianna," I announce myself and the host points to a center table.

The white cloth and silver plates clashed with the chair's upholstery. I grimace as my mother's friends welcome me.

I sit and order a meager salad. I dose off as they chat, but then my water appears and makes my day. I sip it happily.

We talk charity: the various charities, the true intentions of certain charities, event ideas, even preparations and other boring concepts.

"Say," One lady with a giant peach hat and a bejeweled cat brooch muses, "where is that pet of yours?" she giggles as if we were sharing an inside joke.

I reign in my retort and give her an appropriate answer, "Outside."

"Well bring him in!" the lady to my right squeals and raises her glass of champagne. I examine the women in yellow. How much has she had?

"You should stop with the champagne," I advise, "it makes you bloat."

"Oh," the purple lady to my left blows me off, "she is an old gal. She can drink as much as she wishes!" She toasts her glass, "Why we are still young!"

I went to point out her oxymoron, but they all cut me off.

"Bring him in!" they all shout.

The cat lady grabs a waiter and orders him to do her biding.