Under My Skin

One

It's funny how much difference a day makes.

It began like most of my weekdays do: an all-out war with my alarm clock, my duck-down pillow being the weapon of choice. My left arm flailed like a headless chook, desperately searching for that bloody elusive snooze button.

You can't avoid work forever ...

As I rolled over, it was impossible to suppress my cringe mechanism. 8:15am. Eight fricken fifteen? Unfortunately, I had to resign myself to the fact that I was going to be late, and my aptly named boss, Mr Richard Head, was going to make my life a living hell.

What was it my mother used to say? Don't cry over spilt milk.

The air was humid in my little heritage-listed cottage, leaving an icky sheen of sweat. It was days like these that I didn't mind that my landlord flat out refused to fix the water heater. I wish I could've spent all day under that faucet and its never-ending supply of cool, crisp water. But there was no time. Fuck you, time!

I was happy to see that my last set of clean clothes happened to be my black and white polka-dot dress, and my mustard cardigan. They're the only things that Dick— I mean Richard-- hadn't ridiculed me for. Thank heavens for small blessings. I rolled my eyes to the side as I tried to remember if I'd left my performance outfit at the local jazz bar, The Ten and Sixth.

After getting ready, I trudged to my car, Goldie, with a heavy heart and a banana in hand. I put the key in the ignition and prayed to whoever or whatever was up there that I'd make it in time and backed out of the gravel driveway.

My spirits lifted as the first five minutes of my journey had clear roads and green lights aplenty.  But when I arrived on the Motorway ...

Traffic jam! I don't bloody believe it!

My fingertips pattered on my weathered, steering wheel to the rhythm of Paramore's latest track, probably feeding into my already building anxiety. I glanced over at my bruised passenger: the sad, squished yellow fruit and decided that my stomach couldn't tolerate food right now anyway. I could probably spare to skip a meal.

On the bright side, if you ever got lost in the desert you'd survive for a month without food, I reckon. My mother's shrill tones rang in my head.

"Holy Shi tsu, I'm through!" I finally break free of the monstrous motorway, and find that luckily, my usual spot was free. I park and fling myself out of the vehicle, barely stopping to lock my car. I ran toward the door, trying to halt right at the last minute to avoid a direct collision with the thick panes of glass.

I turned my head and took in one last breath of fresh air before entering the stale office space. I wished I could've stayed out there, but it was already nine on the dot, and I couldn't afford to leave myself open like that. I opened the left door and peeked my head through, hoping to avoid my commandant, before creeping into reception and giving an embarrassed wave at Abby, the receptionist. She fluttered her butterfly lashes and gave me a warm smile.

"Dick's in his office," she mouthed. A wave of relief flooded me as I tiptoed toward my desk. I looked up at the fiberglass drop ceiling, hoping that he was busy, harassing someone else for a change.

Sure, my job was merely data entry, but I can tell you right now that I do not get paid enough to suffer under my manager's tyranny.

"Ella Harrison?" Major Dick squawked.

Fuuuuuck!

"Get your snout out of the cookie jar. I've got something for you to copy," he chortled to himself.

I swallowed the lump that formed in my throat. "Coming, Sir." I rushed to the back of the building to Sir Dick's own little dictatorship, grabbing onto my handbag a little tighter than necessary.

"Late again, Miss Harrison." There was no inflection at the end of his sentence. Like I'd be able to deny it, even if I wanted to.

"I'm sorry, D-Richard." Nice, Ella. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience." I averted my gaze as he tried to glare me down. His lips pulled up at the corners, a maniacal smile forming on his mug, brows lifting and waiting for a rebuttal. With a clenched jaw, I pushed it down. I  didn't feel like giving him the satisfaction.

But before I could retreat, he reeled me in, shoving the loose papers in my face. "Oh, and Miss Harrison?"

"Yes, Sir?" I whispered.

"Just remember a trained monkey could do your job. Turn up late again and you best be parking your load in the Centrelink line." He turned up his thin chin, his skin ghostly transparent in the halogen light.

He's an idiot! Don't listen, don't listen!

Flashing his jagged and crooked teeth, he landed his final blow. "Now get back to your desk, and make sure not to stop at the fridge."

A solitary, traitorous tear fell down my cheek. He'd won. Damn it.

I sat at my desk, my shoulders slumped. Sunglasses covered the brief pity party I let myself have before pulling it together and going into auto pilot. Only seven more hours, I reminded myself. Abby peered around the corner of my cubicle and rushed to my rescue, mama bear that she was.

"Don't," I said. "He senses comfort. Save yourself!"

"Bloody prick," she muttered under her breath. She flashed him a blingy bird, hiding her hand behind her platinum extensions. I'd always loved her nails.

I pulled out a scrunched up tissue and blotted at my tear track. "I've got to get to it before Mr Head blows his gasket."

The little pixie-like saviour blew me a kiss. "Just focus on the Ten and Sixth, babe! That's gonna take you places. I can feel it."

"A girl can dream."

"Bitch! Don't dream it, be it!"

I couldn't help but giggle at the thinly-veiled reference to our favourite film. But she was absolutely right. Letting this get me down wasn't going to help me at all tonight, and people didn't come to the best place in town to watch a size-18 girl squirm under the spotlight.

So, I did everything I was told. With gritted teeth, I ignored Dick's snide remarks as he shoved his double glazed doughnut into his skeletal face. Usually he preferred that I asked permission before I left, but I hurdled my way to the front door, ignoring the siren-like squeals behind me.