Prologue 2 - Epitome of Suffering: Denial of help

Mark lay motionless on his sofa for hours. Even when he woke up, his body simply refused to comply with him. All of his bones were hurting like hell. He still couldn't comprehend the horrific events he had experienced the previous day. It was so soul crushing that he had to keep himself in check that he didn't stab himself in the guts out of frustration.

Somehow, after an eternity of staring at the blank ceiling of his living room, a vague idea struck his mind.

"Why don't I ask Victor for help? He will be able to find me a job in another company. It's his duty as my career counsellor?"

Somehow hoisting himself up from the sofa on his legs, Mark's gaze turned from the ceiling to the front door of his apartment. With a dull determination in his face, he went to the bathroom to freshen up. 

When he looked at himself in the mirror, he was almost shocked at seeing his wretched condition. It was all messed up. Tangled and unorderly hair tufts were covering random parts of his face. His eyes were bloodshot, bearing dark circles below them. His face was all soiled with a mixture of dirt, alcohol and dried tears. His shirt was ripped at the edges, as a result of crashing into corners and in alleys due to his stupor.

Nevertheless, he pushed himself painfully into the shower, trying to wash away all the dirt he had been carrying. Each drop of water which fell upon his bare skin felt like bullets piercing his bones.

But he didn't have the power to cry out. He was weak.... So weak that he couldn't achieve the bare minimum requirements to survive in such an atrocious society.

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Somehow managing to change himself into a fresh set of t-shirt and a pair of jeans, Mark Eisner pushed himself outside of his lonely apartment. Securing it with the old rusty lock, he exited Panorama Heights.

Out on the road, he gestured a taxi, which, as expected, came to halt right in front of him.

"Rochet Complex, Fugging, stop right behind the building.", said an anxious Mark to the driver.

He couldn't hold in his nervousness. Victor was the only one who could help him out of this shitty scenario. He was his only beacon of hope, his harbinger. He could do nothing but keep faith in his most well-acquainted companion.

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While being driven to his destination, Mark was gazing out of the taxi's window. He was eyeing all the people moving on the footpaths. All of them seemed to be busy with their own stuff. All of them had aims and dreams. They had their families to care for, colleagues to rely on....

Seeing them almost pushed him to the verge of tears. But he couldn't.... He couldn't cry right now... It was not the right time to shed tears. He had an appointment to make. Wiping away any traces of a tear, he turned his gaze away to face forward. He had to be strong... For now...

________________________________________

The yellow taxi came to a halt behind a tall building, right in front of the bustling plaza.

 Getting out of the taxi as quick as possible, Mark paid the driver his fee.

Looking at the dollar bills, he was painfully reminded of his limited monetary resources.

Nevertheless, he forcibly moved his mind away from that thought and turned around to face the towering Rochet Complex.

The Complex was huge. Comprising of approximately more than 70 floors, the Complex was one of the tallest standing structures in the entire metropolitan area. It harbored more than 5000 office blocks and was the heart of ordinary urban lifestyle in the whole city. More than ten thousand office employs worked in this one building. It literally manipulated almost half of the city's monetary flow.

But for Mark, it was not the time to be standing in awe, admiring the building. Without looking once at the structure from top to bottom, he cast quick, brisk steps and entered the building within seconds after he left his taxi. He had no time to spare.

The inside of the building was fully air-conditioned, providing a chilling effect to those who entered it. Hundreds of people could be seen in suits and formal outfits making their way to their respective work sites. It was bustling with working people.

Mark was something of an anomaly in it.

Visitors rarely ever entered the Rochet complex. And when they did, most of them did so to seek solution to dire problems.

Mark Eisner was no exception to this rule. Curious eyes followed him wherever he went. But disregarding such unprecedented attention, he was taking long strides, in order to reach the gigantic elevator, appearing that he would break into a run any moment.

Reaching the elevator, he pressed hard on the button. So hard that it made a very loud clicking sound, diverting the attention of more passers-by. He was becoming more and more restless with each passing second. His desperation was reaching a limit.

Entering the already full elevator with some resistance, he squished himself inside. It seemed that the damn machine was moving way too slow. It felt like even the world didn't want Mark Eisner to have his way, to achieve his peace. But still, somehow, after what felt like an eternity, he reached floor forty-five, his destined floor.

Throwing himself out of the elevator, Mark found himself to be standing in a large hall with a very high ceiling. It felt like that it covered about two to three floors in itself. 

But still, he didn't stop to admire the architecture. He broke into a run as he could no longer conceal his bursting desperation. Sweat broke out from the corner of his temples as his heartbeat began to rise at a significant acceleration.

Running at his top speed, he came to an abrupt halt in front of a matte-finished, grey-painted, stainless-steel door.

It was engraved with calligraphic characters which could be read out as "VICTOR SIMKINS - CAREER COUNSELLOR"

Reading the nameplate, a surge of hope and happiness spread through Mark. He finally felt like he was going to be saved. He was finally to be pulled out of the hellhole he had fallen into.

But right before he was going to enter the chamber, a firm hand grasped his shoulder, preventing his entry.

With a prominent frown appearing on his face, Mark turned around to determine the owner of the hand which was grasping him.

To his surprise, he was being held in by a formally dressed security guard, wearing a black suit on a white shirt. The universal outfit of an eligible bodyguard. His bulky hand was resting on Mark's shoulder. 

"Sir, you can't just enter Mr. Simkins's chamber without prior appointment. If you wish to meet him, you may have to wait before he has attended to other clients.", said the guard in a firm voice.

Hearing the guard's words, Mark looked around himself. 

About three dozen people were staring at him like he was some clown who appeared out of nowhere. Realizing the situation he was in, he flushed.

He made his way out of the crowd and found himself a seat in the far corner. Surely... Victor was a busy man... His business was flourishing... But still... he wouldn't deny help to Mark. He was one of his earliest clients. More than that... they were the greatest of friends...

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It had been hours since Mark Eisner had been waiting for his turn. He had waited for so long that he had lost track of the time. It may almost be 8:00 pm of night. But still, he didn't lose hope. He knew.... His dear friend would never abandon him... never...

...

After what felt like literal days, the last of his clients left the complex. When they left, the whole Rochet Complex seemed to have been devoid of any life. An eerie silence encircled the few people who were still present in the structure.

Mark had almost dozed off, if it hadn't been for the deep creaking sound of the steel door when the client left.

Realizing that everybody had left, his senses kicked backed in. All of his sleepiness vanished in an instant. His eyes were wide open.

Hoisting himself up, he made his way to the door and asked the guard in a very grave tone, "Can I now meet him? It's really very urgent."

"The guard looked down upon him and scoffed, "Go home, rascal, Mr. Simkins doesn't have time to meet morons like you.", said the guard with a distinctive smirk on his face.

Quite confused at the guard's reply, he asked again, "What do you mean by that? It was you who said that I could meet him after he had dealt with all of his appointed clients!"

The guard looked at him for a whole five seconds before replying, "Bastard, did you really believe what I said in front of all those people? Do you really think I would spoil the image of my employer by just sending you off?

I see you really are a stupid one. Now, get going before it is too late, or I have to take really harsh measures... I must say, they really hurt.

Realizing the guard's tenacity, Mark hardened his face. This time, he was not going to back off. Victor was his only hope, and he was not going to let that opportunity slip out of his hands just by the virtue of a petty guard. In a raised voice, he replied, " Shut the **** up, you bastard! I waited all day long to meet him and you just ******* say to me that I go away?! I am not goddamn leaving this place till I have a word with Victor! You see, I am his old friend."

Enraged by his words, the guard raised his fists, ready to bring down a crashing blow on Mark's head. 

But, before he could do anything, the heavy metal door creaked open, bathing the dim corridor in a bright yellow glow. A neatly dressed man in a checked coat and a yellow shirt was standing between the two.

"What's the commotion, Jack? What's this goddamn noise?", asked Victor Simkins, in a very annoyed voice.

At his employer's appearance, the guard immediately sprang in an attention position.

The guard started to speak in a very serious voice, changing his demanour entirely in a split second," Sir, this man here claims to be an old acquaintance of yours. He says that he is a very old friend. He has been trying to barge into your chamber since morning and isn't budging. He says he'll only leave until he has a word with you. Since then, I ve been trying to stop him. He wouldn't listen."

"An old acquaintance of mine?", asked Victor Simkins in a very amused tone.

"Who the hell are ya, young man?, never seen you around."

A wide smile swept across Mark's distressed face. In a cheerful voice, he spoke to Victor.

"How have you been doing, Victor? It's been years since we met. I beleive you would surely have forgotten my face. But you see, I'm Mark Eisner, Victor. I'm Mark. Remember me? Your earliest client? Your bud? You see... I -I have landed in a very sticky situation.

I... I... I lost my job, Victor. Th-they say I'm not longer eligible to work for them. They fired me Victor. They fired me ! How can they do this to me!

But I know Victor... You'll surely help me... I know... Please... Please get me a job Victor! I really want back my job!.... Please Victor.. I know you'll help me..".

Mark's pleads were turning into an uncontrollable stammer. His desperation was taking a toll over his body.

But... Something seemed to be quite off.

Victor wasn't showing any signs of recognition.

With a strange voice, he said,

"Mark? Mark?.... I don't think I know any one named Mark, mate. But you sure have your way of getting to somebody without an appointment.

Next time you want to visit me, do make sure to fix an appointment."

Mark seemed utterly confused. In a very puzzled voice, he asked,

"What are you saying Victor? Don't you remember me ? I'm the one who first got you into Proust's conference, remember? We used to...."

Victor cut him mid-sentence.

"I don't think you are in your right mind, Mister. You should go home.

Jack, kindly escort my dear friend out, before it gets too much late, will you?"

"As you say sir", replied Jack, showing hints of a smirk on his face.

"Wait what?! You possibly can't...!"

Mark stopped abruptly.

He had gotten his answer.

His eyes became as wide as they could.

He knew.... He now knew what had become of him, he realised what Victor's words meant.

His last flicker of hope,

Has now vanished...