What’s the most dangerous job you can think of?
Secret James Bond style, spy?
Contract Assassin?
Or what about a Mafia boss?
Or what about neither of these jobs? How about working for a crazy, violent, absolutely terrifying, insanely powerful, and hauntingly beautiful vampire? One who owns a billion dollar company. One who dominates every room she’s in. One who could probably kill a guy just by looking at him. Not to mention, one who could more than likely end my life in milliseconds.
Yeah, well? That type of person is my boss. I know. I know. I seriously know what you’re thinking. If you think I’m an insane idiot, then don’t worry, I do too, because I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into.
I still don’t know how or why I got here, but do know one thing, there’s certainly no turning back from any of this now.
My unsteady breath wavers. My hands become a knotted mess as I curl and uncurl my balled fists.
You’ll never really know what actual blood looks like, until you see a lot of it, a shit-so-help-me-god ton of it.
Kind of like right now.
Crimson blood trickles down his chin as he violent coughs erupt from his wheezing chest. His pale wavering hands grab at me, while his dimly lit eyes glimmer with the sheen of death.
He doesn’t speak, and I for sure don’t dare utter a single word. All I can do is stare, and all he can do is stare blankly. He wasn’t here. He was drifting in this world of the living, and he was dying on me. A pond of blood encircles his body as he lays lifeless on my apartment floor. My cheap furniture was wrecked, and the walls were splattered with the same crimson red leaking from the gaping hole in his chest.
There’s too much blood, and it was enough to the point where spellbinding terror poisoned my bloodstream.
All this blood…? Its thick and gunky, and has the color of metal rest. It moves and wriggles and squirms like some scrambling creature as it spills onto the hardwood floor.
I look at the bleeding body in the center of my small apartment living room, and I can see all the color draining from his face like a vortex of life running away. It was hard for me to breathe as I registered the sight, a sight that I knew, that in a few minutes, all the life would flee and leave an empty shell behind.
I guess this is what it means to feel true fear.
I swallow the air. Tears already begin to swell in unison, with the beginning of a soft sob growing in my throat. I want to deny my eyes. I want to wake up. I want to say I’m a liar. I’m lying. I can’t be starring at a body that’s only left to become a corpse. My knees break-in, as crash down to the floor.
Truth be told, ever since I took the job working for them, my life has become a bloody mess, and the scary part is, I know it’s not going to ever go back to normal.
In fact, I don’t even remember what normal looked like—what my life before looked like.
1 year ago…
“Matthew Scranton.” The moment he speaks my name, I shift in my seat.
Not again.
Please, world, not again.
Green eyes that are already thick and heavy on me transform into a darker shade and the color of complete judgment.
Give me a break, if he’s already giving me that stare and we’re only about 10 minutes into the interview, it’s going to kill my optimism, and my cool. But, I can save this. I can save this.
I clear my throat. “Yeah.” I nod and release an awkward laugh. “That’s me. Matthew Scranton.”
“Hm.” Mr. Owen peers at me while he muses over my name. “I wasn’t informed that your last name was Scranton.” He adjusts his thick round rimmed glasses. “I was almost certain he said your last name was Samptom.”
I adjust my suit cuffs and sit up straight. I can feel the anxiety creeping into me, fuzzing my clarity. I have to remain but? I don’t like his stare. I really don’t like his stare. It’s like he’s trying to burn lasers into my head.
Not only that, it’s bad enough the whole office room is about as stale as a piece of bread. The office walls are bleached white with nothing on them except a clock, the floors a bland checkered black and white, and Mr. Owen’s mahogany black desk stands imposingly over me while I sit in a kid sized office chair with plastic cushions, that I swear squeaks at my slightest move. Every single move.
I clear my throat again. “Scranton? Samptom? Well?” My chuckle is hoarse and weak. “What are the odds of a game of telephone, right?”
Mr. Owen adjusts his glasses again. “You make a fair point. But, ever so?” He stares at my resume, his eyes most certainly lingering on my name.
I swallow. I need to get this conversation off my name, like right now. I part my lips to speak. “I know what you’re thinking about.” I make another poor laugh. “I must get THAT question asked a lot.”
Mr. Owen meets my eyes. “That question?”
“Yeah.” I heavily nod, trying my best to carry a poker face. “Am I related to THE you know who?”
Mr. Owen gives me a long stare.
I swallow down boulders. “Y’know Easton Scranton?” I make another weak chuckle when Mr. Own eagerly responds by nodding. “I mean,” I continue, “I wish I were related to him. Haha. But unfortunately, it just so happens that we share a last name. A name that’s uh, shared by…uh, at least thousands of people.”
I swallow again as I meet the glare of 4 eyes, his scanning eyes, and the glare of his glasses. And it doesn’t take me long to feel anxiety numbing my senses, because there it is again: that wonderful, wonderful heavy stare. He should just get a job in eye contesting, because I’m obviously losing.
I force a smile.
I need to keep my cool and act natural. Natural. Act. Natural. I may not want to be here, but the point of the matter is that I need to be here.
I widen my taught smile, forcing my lips upwards.
“So…” I drag my knotted tongue. “Um–.” I smack my dry lips. “—Weren’t we uh, talking about…” I let my voice trail off as the realization slams into me hard. What the hell were we talking about before this? “Uh?” I clear my throat again, a nervous tickle at the back of my hoarse voice. With a panicked sniffle, automatically my body deviates from my previous position. I lean into the wooden backbone of my chair. I can feel every drop of sweat pooling from my forehead and the fibers of my suit.
Mr. Owen gives me a dead stare. “Before this we were talking about your background? I asked you if you had any prior experience in emergency management or clerical work. That’s when you mentioned your family and we derived into talking about your name?”
“Right. That’s right.” I nod, tapping my foot against the ground. For a second, the fluorescent burn of the office lights sear my vision.
Truth be told.
I have a clear idea of what he’s thinking.
I know he’s thinking this whole interview is going poorly. Absolutely poorly.
Straining an already taut smile, my skin stretches as my lips curve upward.
I can save this. I need to save this.
“Well, yes. I think I may have already said this before, but yes, I am certainly qualified for clerical work, but not so much emergency management, haha.” I chuckle, but my humor fades as Mr. Owen throws another glance at me. Oddly enough, I could swear, for a moment, that glance was a glare.
“Do you have any examples, you’d like to tell me a little about?” Mr. Owen asks.
“Examples?” I’m chewing down my inner lip. “Well, at my old job at I was responsible for data management and system processing.”
“I see that.” He peeks at my resume. “Now–,” he pauses to look directly at me. “–What were the reasons why you left your old job?”
Damn it.
I struggle to find my composure. “W-why I left?”
“Yes.” He adjusts his glasses. “Why did you leave your old job?”
Damn it.
Damn it.
Damn it.
I paint a smile over my pale, shaken face. “It was…workplace complications.”
“Workplace complications?” He muses.
“Yeah.” I nod, an uncomfortable, stifling feeling burning in my chest. “Workplace complications.”
Mr. Owen pauses only briefly before he seats my resume on the surface of his desk. He folds his hands and stares me straight down. “Scranton, let me be frank here. You have quite an impressive resume. I could even say you’re overqualified.” His head protruded to the beat of his words. “And when I say this, I do mean it; I think we would have loved to have you here.”
Would have?
Loved to?
My ears are failing me, because his entire sentence sounded weird. Just weird.
“Mr. Scranton, I think you would have been a perfect here.” He gestures to me. “You seem like you have a strong work ethic, and you sound like an even more capable person. But, I don’t think you’re in the right headspace right now.” Mr. Owen pressed back strands of balding brown hair.
Damn it.
Damn it.
I can save this, or really, I have to save this.
“Uh, Mr.–Mr.—-.” My voice is wobbling. “Mr. Owen.” My tone lowers, but resolution remains. I am completely prepared to display just how desperate I am at the moment. “I understand that perhaps this interview got off to a rough start. But I want to assure you, I want this job more than anyone else. I think I could have the drive and the ethic to work hard as I possibly can. In fact, if you can’t give me this position then let me tell you, I’m welcome to any position whatsoever. Any. The mail guy? Janitor? I can be an Odd Job Joe. I can be anything you need or want. I just need this job.” My hands toss out in line with the stressing of my words.
Today has to be the last day of my streak of bad luck.
Today will be.
Owen adjusts his glasses once more. He takes in the air, straightens his tie, and looks me directly in the eye. “I’m sorry, Mr. Scranton.” He shakes his head. “We would have loved to have you here, but being frank, throughout this entire interview I got the feeling you were distracted.”
“Sir, I—-.”
“I’m not a cruel person, Mr. Scranton. I understand we all have our issues we go through, and sometimes we need time to clear our head. My suggestion to you, Mr. Scranton, is to do exactly that. Handle whatever business that plagues you, and take the time to let the dust settle. Once that happens, you can meet me personally, and we’ll schedule another interview at another time.”
I’m nearly speechless at his words. “Mr. Owen, I understand I may have come off in poor taste. But please, allow me to make it up to you. Let me prove to you that I’m the person you want for this. Just please give me that chance.”
“Again, I’m terribly sorry Mr. Scranton. Although we would’ve loved to have you here, your chances as of right now, will be better elsewhere.” Owen handed my resume back.
My fingers felt the cardstock paper, the proof of my loss.
No. No.
End of my streak.
“Mr. Owen.” I pierce his eyes with mine. “I’m begging you. I need this job.” I grip the arms of my chair.
This can’t be like the 9th interview that’s turned me down. I can’t keep at this rate. I’m at my only hope, and I hope Owen can get an idea of my desperation. He has to.
“I would hire you if I could, Matthew. I would.” He stares hard at me. “But I’m really sorry I’m not going to budge on this one. You’ll find a perfect fit somewhere else.”
I return his hard stare, thoughts beginning to build up in my head.
Elsewhere? Elsewhere? He’s absolutely so keen to tell me elsewhere, but I doubt he has any clue where I could start to find elsewhere. That sort of hopeful vagueness is just what I need, right? It’s not as if I would be here if I could find a job elsewhere! Damn fat old crow, why can’t you just hire me. I’m literally willing to take any job he can give me. Why can’t anyone just hire me? Stupid corporate—god, Matthew, fucking hell STOP. I try to calm my raging thoughts.
I sigh.
What am I thinking about?
I should have expected this was a losing cause.
“Yeah.” I stand slowly. “Thank you for your time.”
Owen stands up at my reply, weakly smiles, heads towards the door, and reaches to open the door for me.
“Thank you for coming out.” He says as I stand by the door.
Thank you? For what? To crush my hopes, expectations? To prove to me that I already knew how this was going to end?
“You know what…?” I speak, capturing Owen’s attention.
I could feel the breeze of the draft from the opening door press against my face, but I turned to face him. My eyes burning into his, I feel every word I want to say.
I want to say thanks for wasting my time. Or you did nothing for me, but I could have done something for you, but I’m not the ‘right fit’. And I want to say screw Easton. Screw Easton to hell. He’s the one who got me into this mess in the first place. He got me here, and the worst part is I’ve kept me. If I wasn’t a screwup, I would have been in a different situation. If I could better than him for once in my life, maybe things would be different. But not even I knew what I was expecting.
Easton may have put me in a situation, but I’m not stupid enough to deny I’m reason I’m still in this situation.
Even if I want things to be different, what difference would it even make?
My eyes focus on my feet. My feet remained rooted to the ground in my cheap black leather shoes. I want to say I’m teether to earth, but these days I feel like I’m drowning—slowly being pulled under into nonexistent waves, and one day, I might suffocate.
Owen eyed me suspiciously. The long period of silence of me lost in my thoughts and my extensive starring was probably weird to say the least. Waiting long enough for me to speak, Mr. Owen parted his lips.
“Goodbye, Mr. Scranton.” He says firmly. “Until next time, I hope you find success in your search.”
“Yeah.” My voice is squeaking. “Thanks.” I retreat into myself and nod my head, hurrying out. As I leave, I swear it feels like there’s water in my lungs.
It’s hard to breathe.
That’s how I know, if not today, then possibly tomorrow.