Chapter 11

• Richard
• As soon as we were out of earshot of the receptionist, Tom spoke up. "Samson's right, you know," he said, his voice low and serious. "No one uses this level of membership card without being a millionaire."
• I shook my head, trying to brush off the feeling of dread that was growing inside me. "I paid for this membership, Tom. I have the receipt right here."
• Tom raised an eyebrow. "I hope you have it, because I don't think anyone's going to believe you.“
• I sighed and rubbed my temples, trying to think.
• Meanwhile, Samson's words echoed in my mind, refusing to fade away. "But- but you can't let him go in there," he had exclaimed, his voice laced with disbelief. The irony of it all hung heavy in the air, a bitter twist to the situation.
• Tom led me deeper into the mall, the receptionist's instructions to guide me through my shopping trip still ringing in my ears. As I moved through the crowded corridor of shoppers, I felt eyes on me. It felt like stepping into a battlefield, with eyes tracking my every move like snipers zeroing in on their target. Shoppers of all ages bustled about, their eyes flickering over me, judging me with silent scrutiny. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of place.
• The hum of chatter and the shuffle of feet filled the space, blending with the melodious tunes drifting from unseen speakers. I adjusted the collar of my shirt, feeling a pang of self-consciousness as I noticed the curious glances thrown my way.
• We eventually reached a large department store, the vast expanse of glittering storefronts stretched out before me, the cool blast of air-conditioning a stark contrast to the sweltering heat outside. The polished marble floors gleamed under the bright lights, and the soft murmur of shoppers created a comforting hum. I was there for one thing: clothes. New threads to mark a new chapter in my life.
• My reflection in the shop windows didn’t quite match the opulence around me; my jeans were frayed, my shirt had seen better days, and my jacket was a relic from a thrift store bargain bin.
• Tom, placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry, sir. You're just as welcome here as anyone else," he said with a warm smile.
• The glares that followed me through the marbled halls of the Grand Galleria were as sharp as the glass chandeliers dangling overhead. It wasn't admiration or curiosity, but something colder, more calculating. I was an anomaly in my attire, a stark contrast to the sea of designer labels and tailored suits. These stares were accusatory glances, filled with whispers and muffled laughter. It was clear that they didn't believe I belonged in this exclusive mall, and I could feel their eyes on me like a cold, hard glare.
• As we approached the first store, a group of women caught my eye. They were staring at me with a mix of fascination and suspicion, their eyes lingering on my tattered clothes and worn-out shoes. They didn't know me, yet they judged me, believing I couldn't possibly afford the luxury that surrounded us.
• One of them, a tall, blonde woman with a cold, calculating gaze, approached me. "Excuse me, sir. I hope you’re not lost or something," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "Are you sure you’re shopping here?”
• I felt my anger rising, but I kept my cool. "As you can see…Like anyone else here," I replied, my voice steady.
• “You don't look like it,” The woman mocked. She snorted and turned to her friends. "Just a poor excuse for a human," she muttered, before strutting away.
• I sighed and shook my head, feeling the weight of their judgment on my shoulder. I could almost hear their thoughts, the silent accusations that I was here to take, not to buy—to pilfer the luxury I surely couldn’t afford. But they knew nothing of me, of the platinum card burning a hole in my pocket, of the wealth that lay beneath my unassuming exterior.
• Tom noticed my distress and tapped his sympathetic hand on my back. "Sorry to see that, sir. People can be cruel sometimes," he said. "But you don't let them get to you. You're here to shop, and that's what matters."
• I appreciated his kindness, but I couldn't shake off the feeling that I didn't belong.
• As I moved through the aisles, the whispers grew louder, the sidelong glances more pointed. It was as if my mere presence disrupted the delicate equilibrium of the mall.
• My eyes darting a bit nervously, I spotted two sales girls at a corner eyeing me suspiciously. Their expressions were a mix of distrust and disbelief, as if they couldn’t fathom someone like me being in a place like this.
• Nonetheless, I perused the racks of clothing, trying to blend in with the crowd. Their eyes bore into my clothes like piercing lasers, dissecting me from head to toe. Ignoring the prickle of discomfort, I pressed on, determined to fulfill my purpose for being here—to find the perfect ensemble to elevate my wardrobe.
• Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder, jolting me from my thoughts. I turned to find the two sales girls, their expressions a mix of suspicion and curiosity. I looked around and Tom was surprisingly out of sight at this point.
• “Can I help you with something?” I asked, trying to maintain a calm demeanor despite the knot of unease forming in my stomach.
• The girls exchanged a glance before one of them, a petite brunette with a name tag that read ‘Emily’, spoke up. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her tone accusatory. I blinked, taken aback by their abruptness.
• “I’m shopping for clothes,” I replied, raising an eyebrow at her incredulous tone.
• She scoffed. “Yeah, right. Can I see your membership card?" she asked, her eyes darting towards the security cameras.
• I was taken aback but tried to keep my cool. "Of course," I replied. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my platinum membership card, flashing it in their faces. Maybe, just maybe, this would prove my legitimacy and put an end to the embarrassments being hurled my way.
• But as I held it out towards the salesgirls, instead of relief, I was met with gasps of disbelief. The look of shock on their faces was almost comical.
• “Where did you get that?" They asked in chorus, their voice accusing.
• “I purchased it myself," I replied, my temper starting to fray. "And I have every right to be here just like any other customer."
• Their expressions twisted with suspicion, their eyes widening in shock as if I had just performed a magic trick. “You… you have a platinum membership?” one of them stammered, her voice tinged with disbelief.
• I nodded, my patience wearing thin as frustration bubbled up inside me. “Yes, I do,” I replied, my tone firm despite the rising tension in the air.
• Instead of acceptance, their disbelief turned to outrage. “There’s no way he could afford something like that!” one of them exclaimed, her voice rising in pitch with each word.
• “What’s the meaning of this?” I demanded, my voice tinged with frustration. “I’ve told you, I’m here to shop. Now, will you please—”
• Before I could finish my sentence, one of the salesgirls interrupted, her voice laced with suspicion. “But how did you get that card?” she asked, her eyes narrowing with doubt. “You must have stolen it.”
• I felt a surge of indignation rise within me, but I forced myself to remain calm as I met her gaze with unwavering determination. “I didn’t steal anything,” I insisted, my voice steady despite the turmoil swirling within me. “I earned that membership card fair and square.”
• The other salesgirl chimed in, her tone dripping with malice. “Oh, please,” she scoffed. “Like someone like you could afford a platinum membership. You’re just here to steal, aren’t you?”
• My blood boiled intensely at her accusation, but I fought to keep my composure. “That’s not true,” I countered, my voice trembling with suppressed anger. “I have every right to be here, just like anyone else. I won’t stand for these baseless accusations.”
• The salesgirls remained unmoved, their expressions hardened with suspicion. “We saw you eyeing the expensive items,” one of them insisted, her voice growing more shrill with each word. “You’re nothing but a thief.”
• I clenched my jaw struggling to contain my rising anger, my fists balling at my sides. “I am not a thief,” I seethed, my voice barely above a whisper. “I came here to shop for clothes, not to be treated like a criminal. You have no right to accuse me without evidence.”
• But my protests seemed to fall on deaf ears as the salesgirls continued to hurl their accusations at me, their words stinging like arrows. I glanced around desperately, searching for someone, anyone, who would believe me.
• I watched as they reached for their phones, their fingers tapping furiously against the screen as they dialed a number. Panic gripped me as I realized what they were doing, they were calling security.
• “You can’t just—”
• Before I could finish my sentence, the sound of approaching footsteps cut through the air. Turning, I found myself face to face with a pair of security guards, their expressions stern.
• “Sir, may I see your membership card, please?" one of them asked gruffly from a distance.
• I groaned inwardly, and with a flick of my wrist, I showed them my membership card.
• The security guards closed in on me, their hands outstretched, and I felt a surge of panic grip my chest. I stepped back instinctively, my eyes darting between their stern faces and the accusing salesgirls.
• “Stop…Don’t touch me!” I exclaimed, my voice rising in frustration as I tried to make sense of the chaos unfolding around me. “I have done nothing wrong!”
• The sales girls were quick to accuse, their words sharp as knives. "He stole that card! He's here to steal!"
• I was yelling now, my voice echoing off the high ceilings, demanding respect, demanding to be heard. I stood my ground as the guards approached, their hands ready to seize me.
• Just as I braced myself for their inevitable touch, a new voice cut through the tense atmosphere like a sharp blade.
• “Excuse me, what seems to be the problem here?” The voice was authoritative, commanding attention, and I turned to see a man approaching us, his strides confident and purposeful. He wore a crisp suit that spoke of power and authority.
• The man stopped in front of me, his gaze sweeping over the scene before him with a keen sense of observation.
• “I’m Mr. Damian, the mall manager,” He introduced himself with a courteous nod and turned to me, his tone firm but not unkind.
• “Can someone please explain what’s going on here?”
• I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what was to come. But before I could utter a word, the salesgirls seized the opportunity to interject.
• “Mr. Damian, this man here,” one of them exclaimed, her tone filled with faux concern. “He was sneaking around, and we believe he stole the platinum membership card he is parading around with.”
• My heart sank as I listened to their lies, my jaw clenching in frustration. “That’s not—” I started to protest, but I was quickly cut off by another of the salesgirls.
• “He’s lying, Mr. Damian,” she insisted, her voice dripping with malice. “Look at him…He’s a criminal, Mr. Damian. You have to do something.”
• My face grew hot with anger as I realized the truth behind their words. I was being judged and accused based on my appearance, not my wallet. I met Mr. Damian’s gaze with unwavering determination.
• “Here’s the thing, Mr. Damian,” I implored, pleading silently for him to see through their lies. “I would never steal anything…Never!”
• Mr. Damian's face remained unreadable. His expression was neutral as he turned to the sales girls, his voice a low rumble that brooked no argument.
• “Is there any evidence to support your claims?” he asked, his tone measured yet firm.
• The girls exchanged a glance, their expressions faltering for the first time since our encounter began. Notwithstanding, I was dumbfounded by the lies they were able to craft in split seconds. They launched into a barrage of lies, their words twisting the truth beyond recognition.
• “We saw him trying to conceal items in his pockets,” one of them insisted, her voice dripping with conviction. “He’s a thief, plain and simple.”
• Mr. Damian raised an eyebrow at the salesgirls, “Is that so?” He asked, skeptical.
• The girls hesitated, their eyes flickering with uncertainty. But eventually, they nodded, their earlier confidence waning in the face of Mr. Damian’s scrutiny.
• “I see,” he said, his tone neutral. Turning back to me, he offered a small smile. “Mr…?”
• “Richard,” I supplied, relief washing over me like a tidal wave. “Mr. Richard Smith.”
• “Mr. Richard Smith,” he repeated. “Can I hear your own side of this story?”