This choice: Report back to Patterson • Go Back...Chapter #39The Cost of Failure by: imaj   Patterson leans back against one of the crates in the Fuck Room as you arrive, a half empty beer bottle in one hand. He acknowledges your presence with a brief nod. You stand there for a minute, still done up as Kendra, waiting for him to say something.
Patterson takes a swig from the bottle.
“Uh… I’m back,” you say hesitantly after a little while. The part of you that is still channelling Kendra bridles at your meekness.
Patterson sets his bottle down on top of a crate and stands up straight. He looms over you. “You got five minutes to get out of that shit,” he tells you, glancing at his watch as he does. “I don’t wanna see your scrawny ass naked when I get back.” With that he brushes past you and leaves you alone in the loft.
You take Patterson’s warning at face value and fling the purse you’ve carried since this morning to the side, quickly divesting yourself of the clothes you are wearing: The dress, the boots, the underwear and even the hair band quickly end up in a rough pile on the floor. Then you reach up to your face and say the words that let you pull away the mask. You summon every ounce of your willpower to try and stay awake as it reluctantly parts from your face.
The room swims and your vision fades and blurs, but you manage it: You take the mask off without falling unconscious.
Your triumph quickly spoils though – Your own clothes are nowhere in sight. “Shit, Shit, Shit,” you mutter to yourself as you hunt desperately through the loft looking for them. Eventually you find them rammed down the back of a rolled up old gym mat. You look around. No sign of Patterson yet, but he could be back any second. So you start pulling your clothes back on as quickly as you can. You stumble a little as you slip your shorts back into place, then you fumble with the buttons of your shirt, managing to match them up to the wrong holes. The mistake costs you precious seconds as you redo them.
“You better be fuckin’ dressed,” hollers Patterson from just outside the Fuck Room. In fact, you’re still in the act of pulling your pants back up. The sudden distraction knocks you of balance and you fall to the floor with them at half mast. “You’re a fuck up Prescott,” says Patterson from somewhere in side the room now. You tilt your head. He’s right above you. “What are you?”
“A fuck up,” you say weakly.
“Don’t fuckin’ forget it,” he adds, turning away from you as you struggle up from the floor. You finally pull up your pants, tucking your shirt inside the waistband. “Tell me you got the stuff at the party.”
You hurry back over to where you dropped the purse and pick it back up. Looking inside, you find the mind the mind band of Chris Yves first. Anxiously, you pull it out and give it to Patterson. He grins ferally as he snatches it from you.
“Christine Yves, huh,” he says as he reads the mind band. “Don’t know the name. You sure she’s right for our girl?”
“I saw her making out with another girl,” you stammer.
“You sure they weren’t just doing that for the attention,” smirks Patterson. “It happens sometimes.”
“No,” you manage to reply, forcing out the words. “They were in a room by themselves when I walked in.” Patterson snorts a gruff laugh. “She’ll do. What else you got for me?”
The next item out of the purse is the mask that combines Andrea, Maria and Tina. You manage to get your hands to stop shaking long enough to hand it over to Patterson. He looks at it critically, tilting it this way and that as he inspects the face caught within. “Not bad,” he says. “At least our girl’s goin’ to look the part. You know Prescott, give me that last mask and I might actually start thinking you’re not a total loser.”
“I… Uh…” is all you can manage.
“You got the mask of the ball player,” asks Patterson. “Right?”
You just stand there, frozen like an animal caught in the headlights of an approaching car. Patterson throws the mask of Andrea, Maria and Tina to one side snatches the purse from your unresting hands. He digs inside, looking for the last mask. The purse drops to the floor as he pulls it out.
He looks at the mask, the one of Monique, his lips curling in contempt. “What the fuck is this Prescott,” he shouts. “Who the fuck is Monique Travers?”
“I couldn’t get a hold of one of the basketball team,” you stutter. The words tumble out too fast, barely making any sense at all. Patterson stares at you, his contempt obvious. “She’s Jon Straussler’s girlfriend. I though I could use her later to get close to him and get a mask then.”
Patterson moves lightning fast, bundling you up against a pile of crates. “I didn’t ask you to think,” he shouts loudly right in your ear as he pushes your faces against the rough wood of the crate. “I asked you to get a fucking mask of one of their team.”
He grabs you by the hair and pulls your face clear of the crate before slamming it right back against it. You yell out in pain. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you cry.
“What fuckin’ good does that do me,” shouts back Patterson. He slams your head against the crate again for good measure. “Now I gotta waste another fuckin’ mask on that bunch of pussies because you thought…” He hits your head off the crate for a third time. This time, at least, he doesn’t hit you too hard.
“Sorry,” you wail again. “I’ll get it for you next time, I swear…”
He lets go and you fall to the floor, rolling over before you come to rest. Patterson just shakes his head in disgust. “Get the fuck out of my sight you useless piece of shit.”
He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You scramble to your feet and run out of the Fuck Room. You don’t stop running till you reach home.
*****
You Mom wanted to know about the marks on your face. You’d told her that you had fallen. She didn’t believe you, you could tell that much, but she didn’t press the issue. You’d taken your dinner up the stairs and eaten in cold isolation, unwilling to face whatever inquisition your dad would have started over the rapidly forming bruises on your cheek.
You stare at your maths homework. The questions aren’t going to answer themselves anytime soon, but you just can’t muster the effort to solve them yourself. You’re on the verge of giving up on it and going to bed early when your cell phone rings. You don’t recognise the number, so you speak hesitantly when you answer the call.
“Hello?”
“Prescott,” comes a terse voice over the line. It’s Patterson.
“Look,” you sigh. “If you called to shout at me again, I get it,” you say with resignation. “Just tell me what you want, I’ll do it, ok?”
Patterson snorts derisively. “So you do have a little backbone, shame it only shows when you’re miles away. Get your ass back over to the loft.”
“What,” you say, your voice sounding strangled.
“I said, get your fuckin’ ass back over to the loft,” repeats Patterson. “Don’t make me say it again. I’ve changed my mind about that mask you got,” he adds ominously.
You shiver involuntarily, wondering exactly what he means. Do you do as he asks, hoping to get back on his good side, or do you make your excuses and go to bed?
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