Errand boy

Tied intrinsically to death is always the concept of wrongdoing. Whether it's a wrongdoing on the part of someone else that has caused the death to occur, or the wrongdoing of the world or some higher being that has perpetuated the fateful result. If we're taking human perceptions into account, that is, but in this world, when are human perceptions not the basis for logic and discourse. This is all to say that this wrongdoing needs to be directed at someone or something, concretely; most of all, there needs to be somewhere for anger, hatred, regret, and dismay to centre on. 
Through a whole series of bizarre events, it seems that I have become this targeted centre.
Unbeknownst to me, I was now a paradigm of 'wrong place wrong time'.
A role model for all those who wanted to spout it as their defense, blame it as their ill fate, or rely on it to shift blame.
Well, that's beside the point.
My sauntering into that alley has basically sealed my fate for the foreseeable future, and considering that a thirst for revenge is one of the hardest things to overcome, to talk your way through, it truly seems like something that will be almost impossible to shake off.
"You're lucky you weren't melted like paraffin right then and there" is how one of the employees so kindly put it.
Now, with a floor all to myself, I spent most of my time wandering about from room to room, staring out of frosted windows or mindlessly gazing at the by-the-book paintings that littered almost every room. 
It seemed that the further up this building we went, the less and less it had been converted, or rather, the more it remained untouched, still resembling a fairly modern set of hotel rooms, meaning that it probably hadn't been out of service for long.
I get that less and less people are fixed in place nowadays, but a hotel of this scale and supposed quality going out of business was still strange.
When I tried to bring it up as casual conversation, the glasses of the polite employee didn't move an inch from the papers they were (perpetually) glued to, and it sounded like he had delegated the task of engaging me in conversation to a separate personality, while his main body worked on whatever it was he was mulling over. 
"Unfortunately, I know about as much as you, or anyone here, for that matter. There are rumours... as there always are, but none of them are quite grounded enough to be taken seriously."
I suppose that at the end of the day, which has been coming slower and slower ever since I was moved up here, it doesn't really matter where I am. 
Roaming the streets is no longer an option, and while I was sorry to see the relinquishment of my duties as errand boy so swiftly after my first job, I would rather not run the risk of bumping into that vendetta-stricken man for a second time.
Originally, they had intended for me to be stowed away with the rest of the employees as they took a trip to the next town over for work, but that proved far more risky, and they eventually settled on shoving me up here instead.
Now, me and glasses over here were stuck wandering these hotel rooms until a solution could be found to my inability to step foot out in society without risking a violent, heated death.
Glasses was preoccupied enough with his work to not be all that discontent with this arrangement (though being unfamiliar with his personality, I couldn't say for sure whether he was just hiding it well, or wasn't one to make it obvious), but after the third day of watching the swarms of ants that I was once a joyful member of, soaking in serenely cobalt blue sunrises and misty tangerine sunsets, I was beginning to lose my mind a little in here.
As my own bubbles of discontent were popping and blooming over and over in my heart, I slumped down on one of the beds at the far end of the floor, covers tucked in tightly and pillows neatly symmetrical. 
Is this what my life will be from now on?
I could probably still play some kind of role in this company nevertheless - the armchair detective trope seems pretty appealing - but I don't think I have the intelligence or skills of discernment for that.
Besides, that was probably Glasses' usual role here anyway.
Was I just going to hide away up here till the world ended?
If it was something visible like a meteor or planet crashing into this side of the globe, I would have a pretty beautiful view of it, and if it was some kind of zombie virus or other humanoid apocalypse, this might just be one of the safest positions around here. 
It wasn't skyscraper level, its top didn't pierce the clouds like some of the other buildings around here gave the illusion of, but it was still looming enough to give a sense of safety from the world below. 
My only problem here would be the building next door, which was too close and slightly too tall for comfort.
It could easily be jumped across, or if toppled over in an unlucky direction, take this one down with it...
While ruminating on something as obscenely immature and irresponsible as this, leaving the worries of exactly how I would find myself free of theses circumstances to the almost complete strangers that had almost no obligation to aid me whatsoever, I failed to take notice of something important, far more than any delusions of apocalypses or meteors.
Maybe my mind really is slowly deteriorating in here.
Not even noticing that one half of the bedsheets weren't tucked in nearly as tightly, that they were barely tucked in at all - just how inattentive could I be?
But I guess the most important part is, how could I fail to notice that the bed was ever so lightly vibrating like it had a beating heart of cotton at its centre?
Not to mention anything of the just as light humming that only now registered as entering my left ear.
I slowly turned my head from the unfamiliar white ceiling that had lulled me into a kind of dazed detachment from reality.
A thick bundle of fluffy yet smooth fuchsia greeted my widened eyes, one that was quietly rising and descending like we were on a boat resting in calm waters.
Yes, 'we'.
It should be obvious by now, though it's a little embarrassing that it's taken this long.
Though, it might be a higher order of embarrassment  that it's taking this long to acknowledge the naked reality.
And I don't just mean the exposed areas of flushed-marble, the f1ad88 that couldn't be contained by the contrastingly dull beige of the hotel sheets.
If using hexcolour wasn't enough of an indicator...
"HFhmh!?"
Whatever kind of sound it was, I sincerely hope that this woman wasn't lucid enough yet to hear me make it, and from my position down in the chasm between bed and nightstand, I put my hands together in prayer that this moment wasn't witnessed by anyone but me and perhaps some higher being.
Tentatively, I raised my head just far enough above the mattress to peek at the figure that I had irresponsibly slumped down next to.
How could I have so carelessly interrupted the sacredness that is someone's sleep?
It was already gnawing at me inside - the guilt, that is.
Putting aside this slipshod cover up for what I was really feeling, her breathing remained steady, and from down here, it looked like I hadn't caused as much of an interruption as I had first assumed.
Good. 
Now, if I could just sneak out of here before this is blown out of proportion.
My back ached a little from the damaging position I had thrust myself into in surprise, and the muscles beneath my elbow felt taught as I untwined it from the wooden legs of the nightstand, but it was an extremely small price to pay for my survival.
Maintaining a lowered crawl, like I was escaping a burning building and trying my hardest not to inhale any smoke, through the perspective of a small cat, I maneuvered across the room, thanking nobody in particular for its small size.
As my fingers dug into the faded cream carpet that layered the hallway, I breathed out a sigh of relief - a feeling somehow far stronger than when I had woken to find myself free from the hatred of the man who was now circling the city to find me.
If her sleeping form could illicit that great of a instinctual response in me, I couldn't imagine what she would be like if I had to face her without the protection of her unconsciousness.
Finally, both my hand could now grip...
For some strange reason, though my right set of fingers were still ferociously gripping the fluffy strands of carpet, that same sensation was lost on my left.
Carefully, I turned my head up towards where I could feel my left hand stopped in motion.
Ah, there it was, midair, halfway through the motion of reaching to safety.
In that case, all I had to do was bring it down, and I could finally pull myself into paradise.
But like the countless bodies of the dead whose fingers were denied their grasp on the spider's string, I couldn't bring myself to make that final movement.
Wow, was this really such a moment of freedom to me that it could be compared to clawing out of the depths of hell to reach life once again?
It's true that I had scarcely had an interaction with the opposite gender since high-school, but really, this kind of reaction was a little to melodramatic, even for me.
Oh. This isn't in my head. 
Not this whole situation, of course.
But my hand.
Rather, my entire left arm.
It isn't stuck there for some psychological reason, it's not that I'm struggling to make that final step into paradise.
I've been denied entry, or rather, denied exit.
As I turned my body over to my right, half rolled over like some kind of pet waiting expectantly to be pet, a swirl of fuchsia greeted me with a ferocity that flashed conscious trauma into my soul and unconscious trauma into my visceral organs.
It was a ferocious, inconsiderate, unbridled, but stronger than all else, concentrated storm of fury.
And once again, it was directed at this sorry excuse for a human.