As time went on, I got better and better at my job. I finally used the employee’s underground parking, too, my motorcycle going to the lowest level, me not minding having to walk up several ramps to get to the elevators if it meant my motorcycle was safe from stupid drivers. I pulled off my helmet, turning off the camera as I put the helmet away, removing the over-the-clothes dirt bike armor I wore.
I had faith in my driving skills, but I was easily distracted, and it only took one idiot also not paying attention to lead to my very painful hospitalization. My dirt-bike armor wouldn’t do much, but it was better than road rash if I jumped off in case of emergency, I would think.
Putting the armor in the side bags I’d equipped my bike with, I grabbed my duffel bag from one and pulled it over my shoulder.
The only other car at the moment was one parked in a VIP spot next to the elevators, and I swiped my ID as I stepped into them, the highest the elevators going being the lobby.
Walking out, I went to Harold, who was snoring. I signed my name and scanned my ID. The quiet beep didn’t wake him, and I left a drawing of a cartoon bunny rabbit saying Good Morning behind for when he woke up, making sure it faced him.
He spoke of his wife a lot, and I was glad he’d found someone to make him happy. He sounded absolutely smitten with her. According to him, they’d recently decided to have children, both hoping for a boy so they could get him a dog on his fifteenth birthday, as Harold’s father had done for him.
It was a very nice time, speaking to Harold, but it required forgoing my exercise entirely, and I was feeling miserable.
The treadmill was my attempt at solace, but no matter how hard I ran, it wasn’t enough. I’d gone through everything twice before I ended up in the shower, curled up.
Misery remained, curling within me. I spiraled into darkness, feeling suffocated and like I was drowning. Barbed wire curled around my throat, and I wished it would tighten, I wished it would make it impossible for me to breathe as it cut into my skin.
Something within me snapped, and my rage continued climbing. Reaching out, my hands wrapped around my duffel, dragging it closer. I opened it and searched until, finally, my choice of blade appeared.
Pain spread, skin splitting open, and red pouring out endlessly, and I felt like I could relax.
My rage ended at the sight of blood, and my depression eased at the pain. At the chemicals flowing through me. Tears of relief escaped me even as I stared at the blood dripping down the drain.
I got undressed, the shower turning on as I grabbed the soap. It burned even more.
…
Why am I like this?
Why can’t I just stop?
I’m living a good life. Shawn is a good friend and Harold is a great acquaintance. I make enough, I eat enough, I exercise enough. Hell, I even go to the roof now to get enough UV-B light every day, up to an hour of just chilling to get my daily sunlight.
I kept myself clean, I kept my home life and work life clean and neat and organized.
I did everything I was supposed to! So why…
I looked down at the white tiles as blood slowly swirled down the drain, the orangish-red color mixing with darker reds.
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Why?
…
No answer came to me.
When I got out, I poured rubbing alcohol over my newfound wounds, putting on a form-fitting black undershirt to keep the blood from staining my loose white button-up.
What was the point in taking care of myself if I was going to be miserable anyway? This wasn’t fair.
Either way, I still had to work, so I got ready, shoving everything in my duffel after getting rid of the evidence and wiping my blade clean of future rust.
My days went well, and I found myself slowly fading, not going to the gym as often, never visiting the roof anymore, and I started being unable to even get up from bed. Stopped taking frequent showers, too, and it didn’t really matter, because I didn’t smell enough for anyone to care. My skin grew paler than snow, an unhealthy shade.
What was the point?
No matter how hard I tried, I’d be miserable anyway. Might as well starve out on the streets, right?
I got fired thrice and called and brought back thrice, Davis was very adamant that I was the one to deliver his papers, presumably appreciating my organizational skills despite my poor attendance.
In spite of my thoughts, I still did my best to go to work, if only to have a reason to drive my motorcycle. If only to talk to Shawn, and fawn together with him over Davis.
It started consuming my life, the only thing that allowed me to focus on things other than how horrible my life currently was. Hair dark as sin, eyes as fierce as steel, the man cut an intimidating figure when he wanted, and was always an attractive badass.
He doesn’t even look at me. That’s what Shawn said. Did he look at me? Weeks passed with that as my focus. With that as my obsession. Months.
Even just one glance!
But no.
No, his gray eyes only focused on the paperwork and his monitor, the light of the monitor reflecting in his elliptical glasses. The click of a mouse and the sound of a mouse sliding against polished and expensive wood were my only comfort.
“You’re right,” I said with a heavy, if wistful, sigh, slumping against Shawn’s wraparound desk, “He doesn’t look at us at all.”
Shawn shifted back from where he’d been hyper-fixated on his phone, seemingly forgetting he was in the middle of a level as he died, “I told you, girl, he doesn’t look at us at all! He only meets their gaze if he thinks they’re important.”
I sighed lightly, “Ah, to get fired and suck his—“
“Girl, his office is right there,” Shawn interrupted as he hurriedly stood up as if to stop me from speaking. His entire face turned a brilliant shade of red.
I grinned from where I leaned, knocking twice on the wood of his desk.
“Yeah, yeah, fine. What should I say instead, SHD? So do you think we should set up a bro-code, or do you think we should just be happy if someone gets him first?”
“You have no shame, you would definitely walk in there and do something to make him look at you if you thought you could do it without getting fired,” Shawn said judgmentally, sitting back down with a frown, “Definite bro-code. I call dibs.”
I hummed, shrugging, “Did you figure out whether he’s even into men or women? I’ve seen both under his desk, so it’s debatable.”
Shawn nodded rapidly, “I did! He’s bisexual. I managed to ask,” His face changed, becoming tinted red once more, “I’m starting to think you aren’t lying about people being under his desk, too. Unless we’re being fired, I definitely call dibs on him. I do way more for him than you do.”
“Hey, I organize his papers for him!” I argued with a grin, knowing it was true, “That’s totally important.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Important enough to get paid $23 an hour without ever having attended college,” I teased.
Shawn looked almost disgusted, gaze dramatically looking away. Watching as his face paled and his eyes looked to the hallway, his entire expression changing, made me feel weird inside. Pity filled his gaze as he looked back at me.
I was afraid to look back, my heart twisting in my chest and lungs a bit short for air.
“You have not attended college? Did I hear that correctly?”
A very cold feeling washed over me, and my smile fell.