Set Free // HS ✓

One.

Why did I agree to do this? On a Monday? You're such a moron! I mentally scold myself as I silently bang my head against the desk. Listening to a woman go on and on about an industry that she knows nothing about is quite tiring.

People tend to have the belief that hotels play games with you and will lie about being sold out. Why – especially in this economy – would any business turn down money on purpose? We want to sell you a room, but we can't. There is no room to sell.

"I mean, what about handicapped rooms? Surely those aren't booked as well. It's illegal to reserve those, right?"

If it is illegal, then wouldn't you have just answered your own question?

"No ma'am, those are reserved in advance as well," I say with my fake customer service voice that I have managed to perfect over the last six months of working here.

"Is there a waitlist?"

Oh, you mean the list that is nothing more than a formality? The list that has never been used in the history of the hotel? The list that probably has over a hundred people on it ahead of you?

"Yes. Yes, there sure is."

Finally, I was able to input all of her information into the system. I lie through my teeth, promising her that if a room were to come available that she would get a call.

Reluctantly I hang up the phone, bracing myself for another call to come through immediately for the exact same conversation. I let out a small sigh of relief when the phone doesn't light up. Finally, I can start doing my own work that needs to be done. I'm a sales coordinator, but I rarely have a day just dedicated to my own job description.

However, today is my fault. The in-house reservation specialist has a doctor's appointment and won't be in until after lunch...and I found myself stupidly volunteering to cover like the complete idiot that I am.

Wren, you have got to start thinking before you speak.

Picking up a bright neon pink folder, I take out its contents and sort the documents on my desk, so I can get a glance of all of them at once.

I don't recognize the act's name, but luckily our receptionist Chloe had left a sticky note stating "band from the 1980s" that was left on top of the cover sheet to clue me in. Growing up completely sheltered from all things pop culture hasn't really helped me with this job.

What I find funny is that a lot of the older acts (or has-beens as we call them) that stay here are a lot more demanding than the new talent. This group is no exception.

Giggling to myself as I read the never-ending list of requirements: a full-length light-up mirror, free weights, 100% Egyptian cotton linens, a "Vitamix" blender, and daily organic grocery delivery to name a few.

Switching over to the lists of requested food for catering, I roll my eyes as I go through and highlight the specific brands, so we won't make the mistake of purchasing the generics again. Because God forbid a celebrity would ever have to subject themselves to eating the Whole Foods house brand granola...the horror.

CALL CATERING & HOUSEKEEPING/MAINTENANCE ON MORNING OF ARRIVAL! I write on top of the paper in red sharpie to make sure it catches my attention. These types of days are quite hectic, and I'm known to forget to confirm with the managers to make sure that everything is done. By that, I mean I forgot to do it one time, and my boss hasn't let me hear the end of it ever since.

Pushing the list over to the side, I dig through my drawer for my ibuprofen stash due to an impending headache. As if today isn't wonderful enough. After swallowing them dry, I just take a minute to breathe. How in the world is it not even eleven o'clock yet? I feel like I've been here for an eternity.

"You can sit down and do nothing when you're on break, but when you are on company time you better be working." I hear from behind me.

Kathy.

I turn around to look at the intimidating blonde woman and gulp.

"S-sorry I was just—"

"Save it. I always seem to find you looking off into space. You clearly aren't that busy. Obviously we need to find you more to do around here."

With that, she turned around and walked away not even offering me the chance to reply. I try my hardest not to cry and re-focus on the task I have at hand. This woman just waits for me to make any kind of mistake and jumps on me as soon as it happens. I can't seem to do anything right.

I hear the 'new email' alert come up on my computer, and I see that it's from the one friend that I have made since working here, Micah. Her desk sits on the opposite side of my cubicle, and always gets a front row seat to Kathy and I's many confrontations.

Subject: Somebody forgot to take their meds this morning

Seriously, fück Kathy. Today she is on a roll, I even heard Brad talk about how ridiculous she is being today... and we both know that he is her bïtch. She likely just needs to get laid.

Love ya

-M

"Wren, do you want to come to lunch with all of us later?" Stephen from IT asks as he sticks his head into my cubicle, lightly startling me as I was beginning to reply to Micah's vulgar worded email.

"Oh uh...thanks for inviting me, but I brought my own lunch..." I awkwardly respond trying my best to not sound rude. It's not that I don't enjoy being in the company of my coworkers, it's just I desperately need some time just to myself to decompress. Especially today.

"Oh...well, okay. See you around then."

"See you later."

The second Stephen steps away, the phone rings.

I love my job. I love my job. I love my job. I will keep on repeating this to myself until I believe it.

~~~

After a long day full of attempting to sort poorly organized documents, endless phone calls, and two failed staff meetings- it's over. I survived yet another Monday.

I walk in the house, toss my keys into the entry table, and secure the deadbolt. I double check it and flip on all the lights before walking into my living room and throwing myself face first on the couch.

I am done with work. I don't have to think about it anymore. I'm free...for the next sixteen hours.

I roll over on the couch, and the photos on the wall catch my eye. I really should remove these, but I just can't seem to let myself do it no matter how miserable they make me feel. It's my attempt at not letting the bad memories outweigh the good ones.

I jump at the sound of my cell phone vibrating on the coffee table. I see that it's Kathy's name displayed on the lock screen, and my heart stops beating out of anger. There is no telling why she is calling me after-hours, but I refuse to talk to her on my own time; it's the one thing that woman cannot take away from me.

I place my phone on Do Not Disturb mode and refocus on the pictures. I laugh at one that Oliver and I had taken on our first Halloween together. I can't help but wonder if I will ever have a smile that genuine again, but it doesn't seem likely.

It doesn't take long for the fondness of the memory to decay into a strong stinging sensation that burns in my nose and at the corners of my eyes. Oliver's goofy grin blurs underneath a coat of tears, but I can't blink. It's been a year since he left our fairytale behind. I avoid these pictures every night like beggars on the street.

Some nights, I can't look away.

My cheeks and my lips lie numb and relaxed on the face that stopped belonging to me a long time ago, incapable of forming a frown. Twelve months have passed, and I can't remember the last time I've actively cried. And no, not because it's gotten any easier. Not because I'm getting any braver. It's exhaustion. And it makes me incapable of using energy to cry. The scorching tears are like boulders rolling down a cliff. They flow without my permission and, sometimes, without my awareness. The passive mourning and the nightmares. They lingered like a bad cold.