There is bleach in my hair.
Bleach. In. My. Hair.
Not dry shampoo. Not leave-in conditioner. Not imported sea salt spray. No. Straight-up, industrial-grade floor bleach—because apparently, that's what happens when you mop under desks.
I have never, in my entire existence, heard anyone say they were mopping under desks. I guess this is a job he invented just for me.
Yay.
Up until today, I've never lifted anything heavier than my phone, so this is all brand new territory for me.
After our lovely chat on my first day at the office—aka the day I was shoved into a cleaning job—I went home and begged Cora to teach me something. Anything about cleaning.
Safe to say, that was pointless. I had never done a single cleaning-related task in my life, and everything she said sounded like a foreign language. She demonstrated, then handed it off to me. I thought I was getting it, but judging by the look she gave me... I wasn't.
So this morning, I showed up with absolutely no experience. I planned to ask a coworker for help—but surprise! He couldn't afford cleaning staff anymore.
Meaning: it's just me.
The building isn't huge. Not many employees either. It wouldn't be the worst job in the world—if I knew what I was doing.
But since I don't, my boss has apparently started inventing "creative" new places for me to clean. Today's mission: clean the hallway. Top to bottom. Floors, windows... ceiling.
Yes. The ceiling.
How exactly does one mop a ceiling? I tried to explain to my "amazingly brilliant" boss that it wasn't possible—or sanitary—but he didn't care, as long as I did it.
So here I am, standing in the hallway with a dripping mop in one hand, a red bucket in the other, and humiliation clinging to me like sweat, trying to figure out how the hell I'm supposed to mop a ceiling.
My back aches. My arms are sore. Murderous thoughts are blooming in my head like daisies in spring.
Across the hall, he's standing behind the glass wall of his office, sipping coffee and watching me like I'm the 10 a.m. entertainment. I pretend not to see him. He knows I see him.
Of course, he smirks. Of course, he raises his mug in a smug little toast.
I want to throw the mop at his face. Instead, I drag it across the tile, muttering every curse word I know—and inventing a few new ones just for him.
I know I'm doing a terrible job, but I'm trying. Eventually, I finish the floor. I stand at the opposite end of the hall, staring at the patchwork mess of wet and dry areas.
I shrug. Whatever.
I pick up the wiper and a spray bottle, ready to tackle the windows. That's when he walks in, looking around with that same unimpressed expression like the floor personally insulted him.
"You did a terrible job," he says flatly.
I plaster on the fakest smile I can manage. "Sir, that's an interesting way to show gratitude to an employee working tirelessly to do her job."
He smirks. "I show gratitude to employees who do their jobs properly. Not ruin something as simple as mopping."
I glare at him, still smiling. "Funny of you to assume mopping is a simple task. If it's so easy, why don't you do it?"
He cackles. "Oh, but Miss Vale, that's precisely the reason I pay you."
I grit my teeth. He was paying me.
"You know," he says, "it's funny to hear you complain. All of a sudden, you care about someone calling a job like mopping simple. Didn't seem to bother you when it was someone else doing it."
He's still smirking.
"Hits different when you're the one doing it, doesn't it?"
I go quiet. As much as I hate to admit it... he's right.
I think back to all the times my parents yelled at the help. Fired maids over tiny mistakes. Ignored their begging, their tears. I never thought much of it. I just knew someone new would be there the next day.
But now? Now that I'm in this position?
I get it.
Whoever that maid was—she was trying her best.
I bite my bottom lip, fighting back emotion. He's right. It does hit different.
He clears his throat, snapping me out of it. I look up and catch him staring—at me, at the way I'm biting my lip. Something flickers in his eyes. Not hatred. Something else.
I shake the thought away. No. I must've imagined it. This man hates me.
Realizing I'm staring, he clears his throat again and says, "Well, you've done a terrible job, as I said. We can't let this hallway look like it was cleaned by someone in the dark."
"You want me to redo it?" I ask, wide-eyed.
"You will start over," he says. Then he turns to leave.
"You can't be serious! That took me hours!"
"Then maybe you should have done a better job."
"I'm trying my best!"
He stops, turns. "Well, your best isn't enough."
And then he's gone.
I want to scream. Scream until my lungs burn and people hear me across the street.
But I don't. Because I'm a dignified adult. Not a teenager.
For a second, I consider quitting. But I know no respectable company would hire someone like me. No experience. A mountain of negative press. If anyone finds out I'm working here, I'll be back in the headlines.
That life is behind me. I want to keep it there.
It's a shame I'll never get to be a painter like I dreamed. But dreams are just that—dreams. Life doesn't always go the way we want. And when that happens... we suck it up and keep going.
It's time to wake up.
I clutch the mop tighter, blinking back tears. I look down the hallway—and start over.
This is my new chapter.
It's time to face reality.
Hey guys;
What do you think of the new chapter
I just realized I forgot to add his name 😭😭
But I promise it'll be on the next one😅
See you on the next one