Even then, my well is dry. It all poured out of me almost a year ago, and there’s nothing left for me to give since nothing has changed.
I stare blankly at the bright blue and pink disco lights, then drop the spinner onto the table beside last week’s empty cup noodles. Staying slouched against my seat, I move my fingers over the keyboard to record Suzanne’s comments.
More “you people…”
More “do your job…”
More “I pay you to…”
The light from the screen paints the dark bedroom in various shades of white and blue as I click between the tabs. It’s always dark in here.
Keeping my lamp off keeps the electricity bill down.
Keeping life more depressing is an unintended bonus.
I make noncommittal sounds whenever there’s a break in the asshole’s diatribe.
Once upon a time, I found the crazy customers entertaining. I’d come home and tell my sister about all the shitty things I’d heard. I’d sit in the breakroom and listen to my coworkers’ conversations, pretending I was well versed in the nine-to-five life, had spent my entire life shit-talking rich people, and didn’t have parents in prison for embezzlement.
Once upon a time, I had almost everything.
And once upon a time, I didn’t spend all day, every day, working from home, beside the bedroom my sister died in.
But that’s all in the past. The present is bleak, and sometimes I pray that the future is nonexistent.
“Just to confirm, Ms. Myers, you haven’t tried restarting the modem?” I ask because I forgot to listen.
“Did you even listen to me?” No, I didn’t. “What’s your name? I want to speak to your manager.”
I glance at the top of the monitor. It took Suzanne Myers four minutes and twenty-three seconds to say theMword. Longer than I thought it’d take.
After five years working at Latitude Net—“Connecting you to the universe”—I’ve developed this special skill where I can immediately tell whether a customer is going to be an absolute piece of shit by how they respond to the question, “How’s your day today?”
Or maybe I’ve always had that skill because of my parents. Biting my tongue used to be an impossibility, but now I don’t give enough of a shit to do more than stay silent.
“Of course. Let me put you on hold while I see who’s available.”
“You are not putting me on hol?—”
I click Hold and stare at the screen blankly. Ms. Myers is meant to be my last call of the day. I was hoping it would be a long one, so I had an excuse to work later.
The living room clock ticks, audible even over the loud hum of my struggling laptop. I hear it in my nightmares sometimes. The ticking.
It’s always the same dream. Waking in the early hours of the morning and going to talk to Ella after what happened the night before. I call her name. Once, twice, four times. Eight. She doesn’t stir. When I switch the light on, all I do is stare at her yellowish-green skin, and hear the clock ticking in the background.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Then I scream. Wake up to find that Ella is still dead, and I’m stuck here, living in the apartment our parents bought for her before they went to prison, working a dead-end job, day in and day out, waiting for oblivion to finally take me.
Waiting for something. Anything. But nothing ever comes.
Swiping a hand over my face, I click on my supervisor’s name to explain the situation. The call ends with a heavy sigh and a reluctant, “Send her through.”
I transfer Ms. Myers over, complete my report, then clock out.
And there’s nothing else to do.
The world around me plunges into darkness when my computer dies. Without the fan struggling to run, all that’s left is thattick, tick, tick. It echoes through the bedroom, bouncing against the closed door that leads to Ella’s deathbed.
