FIRED

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean it!" I stammered, my voice thin and trembling with a mix of fear and lingering sleep.

​"You slapped me and claimed you didn't mean it?" he sneered, stepping closer into my personal space.

​

"I was startled when I woke up to someone touching me," I defended myself, my eyes darting toward the door, feeling trapped.

​"So bad... this will cost you your job," he said, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.

"You are..."

​"I'm sorry sir... please give me another chance!" I interrupted, my voice breaking into a desperate plea. I thought of my rent and the crushing weight of my parents' addiction.

"I swear... I would do anything. I can clean every day, please!"

​"I don't think you deserve it," he replied coldly, enjoying the sight of me breaking down.

​"Sir... I'm begging you," I sobbed, my hands clasped together in front of my chest.

​"Well, there is this one thing I want," he murmured, his gaze traveling lecherously over me.

​"Y... yes sir," I whispered, a sense of dread pooling in my gut.

​"All I want is a taste from you," he said, his voice dropping to a disgusting rasp.

​"Please... anything but that," I begged, shaking my head violently as bile rose in my throat.

​

"Well, that is your only option now," he countered, his tone hardening. "It’s either your body or your job. The one feeding you and your drug addict parents"

​"I'm sorry sir, but I can't do that," I said, a final spark of dignity flickering in my eyes.

​In a flash, Mr. Lloyd lost his patience. He pounced on me, and pinned me against the lockers and biting into the sensitive skin of my neck, groaning with a sickening lust.

​"Please... leave me alone!" I cried out hoping someone would hear, the metal of the lockers rattling behind me.

​"Ah... you smell so good. I should have done this long ago," he muttered against my skin, his grip tightening.

​"Leave me alone!" I screamed, thrashing wildly in a blind panic, my nails clawing at his arms to get him off.

​"All you have to do is give me a taste of this sweet body of yours and I will even promote you to be a manager," he whispered, trying to bargain through his assault.

​I stopped thrashing abruptly. A cold, sharp clarity took over. I looked him dead in the eye, my voice dropping to a freezing, steady tone.

"I don't want any position. Leave me alone, otherwise I will report you to the police station. Your wife will divorce you and take your kids away."

​Mr. Lloyd froze. His face contorted from lust to a mask of pure rage. He shoved himself away from me, his chest heaving.

"So... be it. You are fired!" he bellowed in anger, turning on his heel and stomping out of the locker room, slamming the door so hard the walls shook.

​I didn't waste a single second. I grabbed my torn backpack, my breath coming in ragged gasps, and bolted out of the restaurant.

I ran blindly, hot tears wetting my cheeks, the cold air stinging my face but I didn't stop, didn't look back, until I reached the familiar, lonely shadows of the park close to my home.

I collapsed onto a cold metal bench, my legs finally buckling under the weight of the night.

My chest heaved in jagged, uneven rhythms as the world around me slowed to a dull, haunting hum. Above, the streetlights flickered, casting sickly halos onto the cracked pavement and withered grass.

I stared down at my hands; they were still trembling, a frantic vibration I couldn't stop.

​Was any of this worth it?

​I was twenty-two years old, and yet, my life felt like a finished book. I should have been out with friends, laughing too loud, making reckless mistakes, and falling in and out of love. I should have been living.

Instead, I was a ghost haunting my own life, sprinting between shifts, snatching sleep in locker rooms, and surviving on protein bars and tap water. My education was a fraying thread, and I was terrified that one more tug would snap it entirely.

​Why couldn’t they just stop? Why couldn’t they just be parents?

​I pressed my palms into my eyes until I saw stars, trying to shove back the physical ache in my skull. I had followed every rule. I stayed. I worked. I paid the bills. I sacrificed every ounce of my youth. And yet, it was never enough.

There was no gratitude, no presence, no sanity, only the endless, hungry void of their addiction.

​I sat there until the biting wind seeped into my marrow and my tears dried, leaving my skin tight and sore. Finally, I forced myself up. I couldn’t stay in the park forever. I still had to go home. I still had to face them.

​My steps were sluggish, as if I were wading through deep water. I rehearsed the conversation in my head, a desperate script I’d written a thousand times: Maybe if I’m calm.

Maybe if I tell them the truth about Mr. Lloyd. Maybe tonight, they’ll actually hear me. Usually, they turned feral when the money ran out, but I clung to a pathetic hope that tonight they might be too far gone to care.

​The apartment door creaked open, and the stench hit me like a physical blow. It was sharp, chemical, and rotting. My heart sank. The living room was a graveyard of their choices: pills scattered like confetti, discarded plastic baggies, burnt spoons, and syringes. It looked less like a home and more like a crime scene.

​I turned my head slowly and saw them sprawled on the couch. Their bodies were slack, mouths agape, eyes rolled back.

High and Dead to the world.

​For a moment, I just stood there, searching their faces for the people they used to be. Eight years ago, we were different. My father had been a CEO, a billionaire. He was the man who came home laughing, swinging me into the air, promising me the world.

My mother had been my sanctuary, always smelling of expensive perfume and soft smiles.

​Then came the fall. One bad deal, the wrong enemies, and everything vanished in a heartbeat. The company, the prestige, the safety, all gone.

We fell from grace to grass, and they couldn't survive the impact. The drugs took my father first, and my mother, unable to face the reality of our ruin, followed him into the dark. I was the only one left to pick up the jagged glass.

​A familiar warmth beneath my hands snapped me out of the past. I was in the kitchen. Muscle memory had taken over, and I was already cooking. It was a habit born of survival. I moved with the silence of a shadow, terrified of waking the monsters they became when the high wore off and the withdrawal set in.

​I finished the meal and plated it with an absurd amount of care, wiping the edges of the ceramic as if presentation could fix a broken life. I set the table and turned to retreat, my heart hammering against my ribs. If I was fast, I could hide in my room.

Tomorrow, I'll find a new job. I’d fix it. I always did.

​I was halfway to the door when a voice cracked through the silence like a whip.

​“What do you think you are doing?”