Poison and Cure

XII - Notice

بسم الله
In the name of God
September 6th, 2004 12:06am
Augusta, GA, Home of Oliver & Apartment of Genesis

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|G. October to O. Silas|      12:01am (5 minute[s] ago)

Asalaamu'alaikum,

I hope everything is well, inshaa'Allaah. I apologize for the short notice of this email as well as the nature of it; as previously discussed when quitting, I'm putting in my two weeks notice. Thank you and may Allaah reward you for all the benefit of being your assistant thus far :) I've attached your schedule for you to get familiar with.

[schedule.file.png]

– Genesis October

My eyes reread the words over and over, tracing the digital black words on the blinding white screen. I had just got home from a meeting and had finally settled down in my desk chair to finish some work and make my notes digital. Her email wasn't the first thing I saw after I logged on, but it was the only thing that had my attention.

Quitting? She doesn't like it there?

I feel a terrible, sick feeling in my stomach.

I had to have done something.

Have I acted different? Did she notice?

I run my hand through my hair and groan, frustrated.

"Are you serious?"

I wince as my silver rings get caught in my coarse black hair and try to untangle them.

Quitting? She really has had enough. Have I been too harsh? Too friendly?

I exhale as my jewelry is finally released from my hair; my usually neat style is now messy and highly unkempt. I yank off my rings and toss them onto the desk. They harshly clatter against the wood and it's somehow soothing.

"AstaghfirAllaah," I mutter, before clicking the reply button. With my fingers poised over the keyboard, my eyes rapidly retrace her email. Should I ask? No, that's unnecessary. Is it? What do I do? Was I inappropriate?

For some odd reason, I feel frustration and a bit of rage rising in my chest; why do I feel upset? I'm not upset at her. Am I?

I should've never hired her.   

But how would I know it's eventually send me into such a panic?

I groan again, lightly hitting the edge of my desk with my palm. I really should've never hired her.

O, Allaah, forgive me.

"Could I have done it differently?" I muse aloud, lightly scratching my knee.

It's unfamiliar, that's what this is. It's completely unfamiliar, and for the first time in a while, I have no idea what to do. The men around me often praise women for everything from driving them crazy to being the best worldly thing in their life. After barely experiencing a woman myself–in the loosest regard–I begrudgingly agree. I don't wish to leave her, not necessarily, I only wish to have never met her. She's an equation to solve or a formula to crack or a sequence to predict; she is everything that interests me in science, but with the danger of sin dangling above her like a mistletoe.

I feel as if I can keep at bay anything that might arise in me, but how good for me is constant suppression?

And how good for me is the nearness of potential sin?