You woke up sweating profusely; you had just had the dream again—the same haunting encounter with the same counting numbers.
It was 7:00 a.m. on a Monday, so that meant work. You had to get to the office. Unlike most people who needed jobs for money and to make ends meet, you needed work because it was the only way you could escape reality—the crushing reality of loneliness.
You stepped out of bed and began preparing for the day. You had thirty minutes to get ready because it was required that you arrive at the office a few minutes before opening time, which was usually 8:00 a.m.
It was 7:42, and you were finally done with your preparations. You sported a black suit with your hair tied into a ponytail, as if you were a secretary—well, you were, actually, not technically but somewhat anyway, because you served as the assistant manager for your bank branch, and so everything you did involved secretarial work.
You went downstairs, eventually bumping into your cousin—a face you didn't want to see at that moment. He hissed and walked past you. You were a bit taken aback by this, so you stood there processing everything as you heard his door bang shut.
Your phone beeped; it was the alarm. Five minutes had passed! You had literally stood there for a whole five minutes, and now you had to pay the price. It was just a few minutes to opening time, and you hated him even more for this.
You immediately waddled downstairs—an effect of your big high heels—in the living room. You could see your breakfast set out in the living room, waiting for your attention, but you paid it no mind; you didn't have time for that. You went outside and jumped into the car, ordering Robert, your driver, to take off.
But it was fruitless; you were late. And so, when you entered the office, you were met with devious looks from every employee, including the gate man. Great—now they had more reasons to hate you.
You were quite the popular person at your job, but it was in a negative light, as your whole inception into the office had been a controversy itself. The job of assistant manager never existed until you came in and snatched that title right after you created it. It was as if it was a position specifically meant for you to fill, and the people hated you for that.
And it wasn't your fault; you had your parents to blame for putting you in such an extreme position. But all this dawned on you a year after you started your job, so any effort you could make to explain yourself or make acquaintances fell on deaf ears. A misunderstood girl—that was what you were.
"You're late," said the manager, who you knew had hopped on the hate train even though he didn't show it.
You coughed and looked at him. "I am so sorry, sir. I was caught up in a lot of things this morning," you said—a truth that sounded like a lie.
"What are you so caught up in, girl? You are rich. Whatever you are doing, you don't need to. Don't be late again, okay?" the manager said, wearing a smile on his face. But he had already reared his ugly head, and so you took what he said with a grain of salt.
You looked at the other employees. "Good morning," you said as they clocked into their systems, ready to receive customers. But nobody paid you any mind; the ones that did hissed so loudly that the others had to giggle, and you bowed your head, tears brewing in your eyes.
The day's job felt very heavy and quite depressing, as usual, but it was much more severe that day. You stepped out and, without exchanging pleasantries, hopped into your car.
"How was today?" Robert asked, looking at you through the rearview mirror.
But you sighed, your palm on your forehead. Suddenly, tears began rolling down your cheeks—an uncontrollable flood at that. Robert sighed and started the car, driving off.
As you reached home, you bumped into your cousin. You stood looking at him as he occupied the entrance to your house. He gazed at you, intentionally trying to get you riled up, and so you opened your mouth to give him his lashing. But he immediately popped out a flyer and showed it to you.
"Wanna go out on Saturday?"
"What?"
"Wanna go out on Saturday?"
"Where to?"
"The club, silly."
"I guess... yes."
"Then meet me here by 8:00 p.m. that day." And with this, he cleared the way for you...
You walked in, confused...