Waking up was always a chore. Turning over, smacking the snooze button on the all-too-loud alarm, and chiding herself out of bed with promises of food after she made it down the stairs seemed to be the bane of Artisan Arlee's existence. And then, the process of getting ready for the upcoming day was perhaps even worse. Coffee was a priority of course; it was the only thing that would keep her eyes open nowadays.
After that and a bit more inner-struggling on whether or not leaving the house was necessary, she would untangle her thick, curly locks. At that point, the cat would be meowing at the equivalent of a scream for food. She fed the cat, of course; the little bastard.
Artisan would haphazardly slip into appropriate clothes for the day; whether that be a pantsuit to interview someone or something close to pyjamas for just a lazy day. Her boss never really cared what she wore when she sat in front of her monitor.
And of course, after procrastinating for too long, she would end up missing the flying-machine that would take her to her final destination. It was not unusual for a group of bystanders to see the frazzled Artisan yell after the public transit-machine as it took off.
She would need to search through the items present on her wrist-band. It would flash up the time of the next transit that would be able to pick her up.
The first thing that hinted the day would be much unlike the normal, was the hologram flashing that the next transit would appear at 11:15.
A puff of ire came deep from Artisan’s chest. What about nine forty-five? Do I seriously gotta walk?
Once more hoisting the satchel upon her shoulder, Artisan cursed the audacity of the world that would dare to cause her such struggle. And so she started her long trek to the office, trying not to breathe in the fumes.
Wonderful.
“Arlee!” a voice boomed as Artisan stepped into the office, the bright lights of San Cameron twinkling brightly in the background; some kind of neon blur-like dream long forgotten.
The office was quite the same on the outside, however on the inside, it was definitely less… blazingly bright. It was an office. Not small or homey, but pretty and sunlit. A large waterfall tinkled behind the reception desk. A small but imposing lady sat behind it, gazing at a holographic screen, tapping away at the screen. And perhaps the most noticeable was that air felt kind to the lungs of the employees.
“Arlee,” the voice croaked again. This time, Artisan whipped her head around to face the voice, dark curls bobbing quietly in the process.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
“Yes?” she questioned the bright face that had called. A wide smile was bound on her opposite’s face. It was unnatural, though Artisan supposed it was better to see a faked smile rather than an aggressive, furious expression.
Artisan paused for a second. That piqued her curiosity. Why wasn’t her boss furious? She was at least an hour late to her job. Perhaps she should be worried about the painted-on smile.
Her boss was draped in a pantsuit, wrinkled and frazzled, matching the glint that was hidden in her eye.
“I’ve got a new story for you to cover, my dear Artisan!” the woman quipped, her tone somewhat quieter now that she had Artisan’s attention.
Though she was grateful for the fact that she had seemingly taken no notice to her tardiness, Artisan still muffled a groan of discontempt. I can bet I know where this is going.
She masked her lack of enthusiasm with a nod; curt and polite.
Sherry turned around, her tight bun giving a small bob as she whipped around, expecting for her employee to follow without argument.
Artisan did as she was expected, trotting after her boss; following the small click-clack of her heels against tile.
This was typical: Sherry expecting Artisan to know what to do without having to inform her. It was what she did since the day that Artisan had first interned there. It was unnerving at first, but now she followed without question.
She slowed her stride after a moment, managing to keep pace with Artisan.“I take it you know what day it is?” the boss-lady chided quietly, the fake smile was long gone from her face, now replaced by a sorrowful, sympathetic expression.
“Tuesday?” Artisan lied quietly.She knew what day it was. Of course she did. But acting ignorant was a coping mechanism; a way to pretend that she was okay. And maybe she was after all of the years, but it still made her feel… less terrible.
“Artisan…” Sherry heaved as they continued their trek, only stopping once they had reached the glass elevator. "I understand that this must be difficult, but we need to work through it. Through life!"
The 'inspiring' phrase of words didn't catch Artisan's attention, she merely stared out the glass elevator, jaw clenched tightly. Could she just leave it at that, that Artisan didn’t want to approach the subject?
"I'd rather if you gave the story to someone that's -uh- not me? Sorry Sherry, but I just-- I can't." Artisan glanced over to her boss. A deep frown was set across her employer’s face.
"But think of how popular it will be! The daughter of the great Fisher Arlee doing a piece on her father. The ratings would go through the roof!" Artisan's expression didn't budge. Seeing this, Sherry continued, "I could also… get you that promotion you've been looking for?"
Artisan didn't mask her disapproval this time. A long huff was drawn from her lungs, her dark eyes narrowed.
“It’s going to be very biased,” Artisan warned. The elevator stopped at one of the top-most floors, and the pair stepped off. They faced each other, both having an almost exasperated look in their eyes.
“I hope so. Wouldn’t mean much without your opinion.” Sherry considered Artisan with an appraising look. “Get ready, the ceremony begins at three.” With that, the soft click-clack of heels sounded after Sherry as she left Artisan in her suffocating silence.