Serve Me, My Lord

Emmett walked into the cramped staff break room. The air smelled like stale sweat and cheap tea bags. He held a chipped ceramic mug filled with hot water and a generic tea bag. He walked to the worn-out brown sofa in the corner and sat down.

Rory squeezed onto the cushion next to him. The springs groaned. Rory held a crumpled copy of a high-society etiquette guide. His eyes were wide and excited.

"Listen to this," Rory whispered. He cleared his throat. He pushed his shoulders back. He started speaking, stretching his vowels. He was trying to mimic the East Coast old money accent the masters used upstairs. It sounded ridiculous.

Emmett stared at his tea. The dark liquid rippled. He listened to Rory's fake accent. His chest felt heavy. He remembered doing the exact same thing. He remembered spending hours in front of a mirror, practicing how to hold a champagne flute, trying to scrub the slum out of his voice.

"We don't get paid enough," Rory complained. He dropped his normal voice. "I can't even afford a tailored suit. Are you saving up, Emmett? We need to look the part if we want to get promoted to the upper floors."

Emmett took a slow sip of his tea. The hot water burned his tongue.

"I send my money home," Emmett said. His voice was completely flat. "To the slums."

Rory rolled his eyes. He let out a loud groan. "You're an idiot. You can't let your family drag you down. You have to cut them off if you want to survive here. You need to think about your future."

Emmett didn't answer. He looked past Rory. He stared at the cracked mirror hanging on the opposite wall.

The reflection blurred. The memory hit him like a physical punch to the gut.

He was standing in his mother's tiny apartment. He was wearing a rented tuxedo. His mother held out a cheap tin of homemade cookies. He slapped her hand away. The tin hit the floor. The cookies shattered. He turned his back on her crying face and walked out the door. He thought he was walking toward a better life.

The memory shifted. The lighting changed.

Rain poured down his face. His chest was slammed against the cold, wet hood of a black police transport carriage. Rough hands yanked his arms behind his back. The cold metal of handcuffs bit into his wrists.

He turned his head. Through the rain, he saw a black, lacquered private carriage. Clara Patterson stood under a large black umbrella. She wore a pristine white dress. She looked at him. Her eyes were filled with fake pity. She looked at him like he was a stray dog being put down.

Clara leaned over and whispered to the family lawyer. The lawyer walked over to Emmett. He shoved a folded piece of paper into Emmett's wet pocket. It was a forged confession. Embezzlement and corporate espionage.

The memory twisted again. A dark courtroom. The heavy wooden gavel slammed down. The sound exploded in his ears. The judge's voice echoed.

A slow, agonizing death behind bars.

"Emmett!"

A hand waved frantically in front of his face.

Emmett blinked. The break room came back into focus. He was breathing too fast. His lungs burned.

He looked down at his right hand. He was gripping the ceramic mug so hard his knuckles were bone-white. The joints popped with a sickening click. The mug was seconds away from shattering in his palm.

He closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. He forced his fingers to uncurl. He relaxed his shoulders. He pushed the panic down into a dark box in his mind and locked it.

"Are you sick?" Rory asked. He leaned away, looking disgusted. "You look like a ghost. Go to the infirmary. I don't want to catch whatever you have."

Emmett turned his head. He forced the corners of his mouth up. He created a perfectly harmless, stupid smile.

"I'm fine," Emmett said softly. "Just didn't sleep well."

The break room door swung open. Moira walked in. She carried a stack of expensive silk shirts. She threw them onto a table.

"The dry cleaners ruined the collars again," Moira complained loudly. She crossed her arms. "But who cares. Did you hear the news? Lady Patterson is looking for a husband for Clara."

Emmett's heart stopped. His blood turned to ice water.

"Really?" Rory leaned forward. "Who is it?"

"Some Wall Street banker," Moira said. "If she gets married, she'll need a whole new staff for her new estate."

Emmett stared at the wall. The name Clara tasted like ash in his mouth. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

"If I get assigned to serve Clara, I'll be rich," Rory said. He smiled dreamily. "She's so sweet. She always says thank you. She'll give huge tips."

Emmett stood up. The sudden movement made the sofa squeak. He walked to the small metal sink in the corner. He dumped his tea down the drain. He turned on the faucet.

The water rushed out, hitting the metal basin loudly.

Emmett leaned over the sink. He gripped the wet metal edges. Under the noise of the running water, he moved his lips.

"She will bring you hell," Emmett whispered. His voice was full of pure venom.

"What did you say?" Rory called out from the sofa.

Emmett turned off the water. He shook the drops off his hands. He turned around. The venom was gone. His face was a blank, obedient mask.

"I said Finch is coming to check the afternoon schedule," Emmett said. "You better hide that book."

Rory gasped. He shoved the etiquette guide down his pants. He frantically straightened his tie.

Emmett walked to the door. He pushed it open. He stopped in the doorway and looked back. Rory and Moira were still talking about Clara's money. They were trapped in a fantasy.

Emmett stepped out into the dark hallway. He let the door close behind him. He felt nothing for them. He had cut the cord. His ambition to be a rich man's servant was dead. Now, he only wanted to be their executioner.