This demand is little more than another cruel game I never asked to join, because—last I checked—my work agreement never saidendure relentless torment at your boss’ whim.
Fighting to control myself before the acidic feelings can overtake me, I remember something very, very important.
I’m plotting to kill him.
Before the end of the week, I’ll have a burner phone with instructions on how to end this torture once and for all.
If I don’t want to go to this ball, I have fifty-nine days to kill Malcolm. Once he’s dead, and assuming I get away with it, I’ll only have to work for Iverson, who purely confronts me when it concerns work. He wouldn’t force me to attend this ball of his. He wouldn’t care if I were there or not. And once I only have one boss who doesn’t care, my life will improve by a drastic margin. I’ll find more peace. I won’t have to suffer while my brain blazes and my body heats and this hatred makes me vibrate down to my core.
Iverson doesn’t mess with me. Iverson doesn’t want to. I barely exist to the younger Swallow brother. With Iverson, my job here will bemy job. All business. Iverson doesn’t bother thinking up ways to get under my skin. He doesn’t try to break me. Because even though Iverson might have the social presence of a cactus, cacti don’t lunge on top of you and try to scratch out your eyes.
Meanwhile, Malcolm’s a honey badger mixed with a panther. He’s big, ornery, and ill-tempered, but he’ll still find the time to toy with his food. Every day, he comes up with new methods to remind me he’s in control. Every day, he treats me like something he owns. Every day, he searches me for strings and pulls on my threads so he can watch me unravel—as though I wasn’t already falling apart.
Ihatehim.
Ihatehim, and I want him dead.
If he doesn’t want me to wearwhite, fine.
I’ll wear red, and I’ll dye it myself.
?
Me:Question: is brutal murder an option? I’d like him to suffer.
Junction:idlly u’ll b mor discret
Disappointment rampant, I snap the flip phone that was waiting in my mailbox when I got home today closed and place it on the corner of my kitchen island. It took meten minutesto type out that question using the number pad. Ten minutes of flashbacks to an era I no longer possess the muscle memory for.Ten whole minutes.
And this is the response I get?
Scowling, I reposition the phone until it’s perfectly centered in the corner of the counter, then I huff and march to my fridge. “Thursday. Rice, marinated tofu, and veggies,” I murmur, reaching for the container labeledApril 16.
On schedule, I remove my meals for tomorrow from the freezer so they can begin defrosting safely in the sanitary environment of the fridge, then I get a pan to reheat my food for tonight. Once the rice is steaming and my food thermometer indicates it’s the correct temperature no matter where I stab it, I sit on the centermost plush white stool of the three perfectly positioned at my island. Pushing my hair back, I use a pair of ivory chopsticks to bring a crispy tofu to my lips.
There, I hesitate.
Morsel inches from my mouth, I stall as thoughts rise in my brain.
Is that a spec of pepper or a bug? There’s no way there would be mold on this, right? What if I set my chopsticks on the counter, and now there’s Lysol in my food?
I made it. I know I made it. I made it, and I am innately careful whenever I’m making food…but…
Did I put it in the freezerimmediatelyafter it was cooled down? Yes, I did. I absolutely did. And I timed the cooling period, just like I always do.
It’s vegan.
No animal muscles or fat or…parasites.
I cleaned the veggies like I always do, inspecting every part for dirt. I cut them small to make sure every centimeter throughout looked normal and right.
It issafe.
It has to be safe.
But, more than that, Ineedto eat. Not eating would kill me slowly, and if it’s between slow or fast, I’ll take fast.
So I put the tofu in my mouth, force myself to chew, and ignore the way my heart pounds when I swallow. It’s painful, and pricks of fear run up and down my arms.
