Chapter 1

When starting to learn the piano, one first learns the C middle cord. Why not start at A? Well that's a simple answer, this C is the least complicated, situated in the middle, it avoids all sharps and flats. And that's exactly where this book begins, the middle of my life, but we’re not remaining stationary at the middle C, this story takes a little bit of a C# turn otherwise known, in this case, as the C sharp major chord on a guitar.

“Ann, can you stop daydreaming for one second and at least pretend you are working, and at that fact, that you even actually like working here?” the voice of some brunette haired market manager, aka Bram. Bram’s what I would not call my boss, even if he exceeds my position in this company. Oh right, I work at an insurance company, ‘Gesbanosh Insurance.’ Trust me, it's definitely as shady as it sounds. The whereabouts of this company's goals, unfortunately under evaluation(not).

Bram did hit just outside the bullseye, he’s right, I don't like working here. But don’t be mistaken, my position is all work. If I didn’t want the job, I wouldn't have been here right now. At one point, I really did appreciate my job here, that was until I discovered what really hides behind the mysterious liquid blue of this famous cooperation.

“If I remember correctly, didn’t you hit your face in your plate of cake this morning after sleeping on the job?” I responded to Bram. To clarify, the cake was his birthday cake. A rather gooey old chocolate coffee cake, infact, there was still some icing in his hair. “Don’t test me today Ann, your family name doesn’t give you a free pass, get back to work,” he scowled.

Right. My family name. A sticky topic. “Top right, in your hair,” I said tilting my head at Bram. He sank his hands in his hair and grimaced at the site of icing, “Stop grinning at me like that,” he grumbled quickly, turning to walk away. “Oh and Ann? There’s a food spill in the kitchen, I want it cleaned.”

—--—

Of course there was a food spill, standing with a mop in hand I was staring discouraged at a gulp of yoghurt. However, this wasn’t an accidently food spill. The contents of the yoghurt had a sharp caramel smell, that of Bram’s infamous yoghurt. If you touched it, you could consider your job as good as dust. This food spill was caused by Bram, and he wanted me to know that.

“Is that the boss’s lunch?” asked a near inaudible voice.

“More like a rodent's dinner,” I said, furiously sponging up the liquid. There was a cough from the voice, I abruptly spun around to face my coworker Samari, her wispy hazel hair seemed to fizz as her toffee eyes grew in size, but it had nothing to do with what I said, she was staring to the right. I whisked around to be confronted by someone I didn’t wish to see, Bram’s boss. The boss. He, along with an older man, owned the majority of the Gesbanosh company. They were the ones who walked with the power to influence what happens to your career. You do not want to upset them. The boss has been running this company for the past six years, he mostly stayed a tight radius near his office, it was actually a wonder to see him here. “What do you have for lunch if you feel such a strong urge to insult my food?” he asked, trying to keep his temper mild.

I glanced where his eyes led, behind me was a foil box filled with thin french fries with a possible bbq and honey mustard sauce drizzled on top, with a generous coat of parsley leaves. It looked delicious, then I froze. The boss’s lunch… “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean, I was talking about the mess on the floor, and, and-”

“What did you have for lunch?” he asked again.

“I haven't had lunch,” I said, looking at the ground shuffling from foot to toe.

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

“I hope you aren’t planning to eat the rodents meal for the sake of your health,” he responded, looking pointedly at the yoghurt strawen across the stubbed tiles.

“No, of course not why-” I tried to retort but the boss was already walking away and that's when I remembered that Samari was still there and I realised that the boss wasn’t going to punish me because he already did.

—-----

Trying to keep my head buried under my paperwork didn't work. The rumour had already sprung. “What am I hearing about a mouse thief in the office?” said a familiar voice. Batting with my pen still in hand, I heard a sharp yelp before I glanced upwards.

“That's a disgraceful way to put it,” I grumbled, “I discreetly overheard our ‘oh so empathic’ coworkers call me a rabies rat.” I slumped my head back down. “Well, our butterfly friends don’t have a big enough mouth for this treat,” said the familiar, shaking a paper bag.

“You bought me a donut, didn’t you?” I laughed. Feeling like a slug I lifted myself off the desk. The familiar, who had the nerve to sit on the rather dingy desk I worked at, was grinning at me with satisfaction. Her ember eyes sparked with mischief. She did something. That's when the reek washed over my senses. “On the souls of the ice age, please don’t tell me you put a rotten potato in Samari’s desk.”

The eyes were complimented with a deeper grin, “I put a whole bag of rotten potatoes inside her desk.” I couldn’t help but laugh. This wasn’t the first time this happened. A year ago, when I started working here I had my own share of a rotten scone hidden in my desk, it took me a week to find the culprit. The girl before me, who I now called a friend, hadn't liked me at first, in all honesty it was my family name that threw her. My father had built quite a reputation, but once the girl let the image of him slide, she became the one to defend, in exchange for the quiet assailant she had been. Sakria Draken, a honest accountant for the financial sector, as her image portrayed but to me she would always be the one who wasn’t afraid.

Chewing on my custard cream donut I listened to Sakria talking about building an aeroplane that would transport the stray cats, in the city, to a restored island where she’d heard there lived plenty of dedicated cat ladies. She’d just gotten to the part about where the funds would come from when she europted off the desk to chase down one of Bram’s partners, for trying to throw a paper crumbled at my head. Unmotivated, I slowly turned back to the glaring paperwork stacks.

I worked as a clerk for the Logistics sector, and right now it really felt like the paper stacks were burning holes into my soul. It wasn’t that this company was evil, it was just that reading through all these documents hurt. Not in a lazy way. It hurts to read through the filed reports and the declines to pay out for them for something as accidental as having left a wallet on your car seat.”It's your fault, we can’t pay out,” they say, and here I sat signing it as read for these documents would just go into a cabinet and be forgotten. Originally I had applied to this job because I believed I could make a difference from here on out, I couldn’t be more wrong. I didn’t hold that power and I never would, not from within this company if this where I remained, but a promotion was just as far fetched as changing the world. The least I could do at this point was to protect myself, by not getting fired. These stacks were going to be a delight.

—------

However, by the end of the day I couldn’t hold myself back any longer so I did what any decent person would do, confront the core of the issue, by storming into Bram’s office. More accurately, quickly pulling open his door and quietly shutting it behind me. “If the first woman to go to space can receive praise for something that's supposedly a ‘man's job’ then why is it so impossible for you, to accept the fact that a woman can just as comfortably work in an office?”

“Valentina Tereshkova didn’t receive that applause, the Soviet Union did for successfully sending one of you incompetent human beings into space,” Bram responded, not even bothering to look up. “Hey, we’re not incompetent. Also no, they applaud- Oh how great, you're actually right,” I responded with clear disdain filling my words. “Don’t sound so surprised,” he responded. “Why? Does it hurt your-”

“Don’t finish that sentence. Get out, before I tell the boss about this fantastic meeting.” Laced with annoyance I said, “And I’ll tell him that caramel yoghurt increases the rate of ant infestation.”

“Ann. Get Out!” At that I left without causing further conflict.

Lucky for Bram, I didn’t see him again by the time I packed up and headed home for the day. Walking along the hushed lapping of the Sambre river I could just spot the crimson red walls and spiteful pink window banks of the apartment I stayed in, but I wasn’t heading home, I took a sharp right turn, heading for central Namur.

----------------------------------------