Getting Over It

Jolting claps of flame, thunder on the brain. Sinewed synapses writhing, electric tentacles in the dark. Pulsing jellyfish to a tube worm’s feather, a consuming mycelium on a decaying carcass. That sudden realisation of the mess you’re in, you know the sort. A twisting, wrenching, churning sinkhole inside that could swallow life itself. You can’t leave here, you know that.

Act natural. Are you sitting upright? Do you look your best today? I hope no one’s watching. Judging you for not having a significant other, a house, a car. Because that’s what you want, and it’s what they all have. Stop biting your nails, it’s weird. Everyone watches you indulge your compulsions, and they think you’re disgusting. That’s why you stay perfectly still when Emily looks over, so you can’t do anything wrong. She smiled at you, once. You couldn’t sleep for days. The back of her head, a cascading chocolate ponytail under the white office light. Her soft neck and the intoxicating perfume that calls to you from across the room, a taunting pheromone you can’t stop drawing in. You’re obsessed with her, she’s all you think about. The only good thing about working in this gruelling office is the woman who doesn’t even know that you exist.

Fantasies of what could be culminate daydreams, and you almost muster the courage to go talk to her. All that empty gumption and false bravado is swiftly silenced by Chris. Emily always laughs at his jokes. The blushes and giggles, and the way she always plays with her hair when he speaks. He’s smooth, gift of the gab, but he’s also fat. He doesn’t look after himself whatsoever. He took your promotion, and now you’re the accountant that amends his financial documents. You’re the nit-picking monkey who’s been slogging away in this whitewash hell for three years, and he's coming up to his first.

The boss, Andrew, is a stuck-up tosser. He assured you’d get a pay rise on multiple occasions, but you heard nothing. You hate him. Detest him. What’s stopping you from ki-

“David, what’re you doing?”

“Sir, I-” He stammers, frantically jerking the mouse around his dirty desk and minimizing the personal document.

“Did you finish analysing the asset turnover ratio?” The boss questions, leaning over and trying to read the spreadsheet on the monitor.

“I was looking at the um, the short-term and the cash flow. I think, well, the current account-”

“David, I asked you to do that two hours ago. What have you been doing this whole time?” Andrew questions loudly, and the office falls deadly quiet.

“It was taking longer than I thought it would.”

“That’s not good enough, what’s that document there.”

“Where?”

“It’s minimized down there, is that work?”

“Um, no. That’s nothing. Not work.”

“Open it up, show me.”

“Sir, I don’t want to.”

“Do I look like your schoolteacher? My name’s Andrew. Open the document.”

David reluctantly shifts the mouse down to the taskbar and returns the piece to its maximised state. He feels the blood rush to his face and his stomach melting as Andrew silently reads the whole thing.

“If only your accounting was as good as your poetry.”

David dissociates in his chair and starts counting the individual pixels on the monitor screen.

“We can’t have harassment in the workplace. Your feelings for Emily, Chris and I need to be kept to yourself in the future, alright? Not in your personal diary.”

“What did he say about me?” Chris demands.

“Well, he started writing poetry and then it turned into a deviant little rant. I don’t want to offend you, but he wrote about you being fat.”

Chris chuckles for a while before returning to his work. Emily doesn’t move a muscle. She’ll pretend like she didn’t hear but David knows how intelligent she is, how switched on she can be.

“And David, this is why you’ll never get a pay rise, because there will always be someone better than you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Andrew.”

“Sorry.”

“You’d better stay later and crack on with some admin for Chris’s files. Treat it as an apology for being rude to him.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, and David, you couldn’t kill me.” He puts a hand down on David’s sloped shoulder.

“You can’t even walk to the printer without pissing yourself.” Andrew grins as Chris erupts into laughter again, and he returns to his own office.

David remains frozen for the remainder of the day. He skips lunch, doesn’t drink, and steadily completes his work. As colleagues leave one by one, he finally feels at ease. No more eyes, no one to look at him. He opens his inbox to find mail from twenty-six minutes ago. A folder sent from none other than ‘chrismanagerial@balanceconsult.com’ along with a subject containing the description ‘Fat Administration :)’. Documents upon documents that he must have been sitting on for days like a rotten hen, now casually dropped into David’s inbox for him to deal with tonight.

Robert, in marketing, just finished working on some new flyers for the company. He’s a softly spoken and kind man, a few years younger than David. He lets out a sigh, switches off his computer and hauls a rucksack over his shoulder.

“Alright mate?” He startles David who was entranced by the monitor.

“Yeah, I’m alright, Rob. Yourself?”

“Knackered, it’s been a long one.” He moans, turning to leave.

“Me and the boys are going down the Oval for a few pints and some pool at seven. You’re more than welcome to come.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll be heading home after this.” David brushes him off.

“You don’t have to play; I’ll buy the first round and you can come have a laugh with us. Colin’s there, you’ll like him, he’s a scream.”

“I’ll think about it.” David smiles, leaving it in the air so Robert would stop asking.

The PVC door at reception slams shut, leaving David the last desk-jockey alive in this soulless prison. There’s a certain peace with being alone. It’s not a positive thing but equally not a negative either. David’s comfort lies deeper than the surface of his skin, for his imagination can run wild when the fear takes control.

He opens the embarrassing document once again, ruby red as he reads. Fingers start prodding the keyboard as he constructs more phrases for his feelings, more analogies for his thoughts. This method of mental digestion soothes his sickly stomach. He types until he feels his bladder. Shooting pains ricochet through his quadriceps and knees as he gets up for the first time since eight o’ clock this the morning. Waddles past the printer, he glosses over the patch of carpet he wet himself upon last month. It’s all dried now, but he still pictures the stinking, straw-coloured puddle that was once discharged from his pathetic body.

Down the corridor near the kitchen, David pushes the toilet door with his unkempt hands. The keratin talons on his fingers bend against the wood. Staring at the ground to avoid eye contact in the long mirrors, he navigates to the furthest cubicle. The one he routinely eats his lunch in. Dropping the toilet seat down and perching on the bowl, shooting pains fly through his legs once again. While urinating, he clamps his eyes shut for a few seconds, and everything goes quiet.

SQUEAK

The unmistakable sound of the gent’s door shatters the silence. David hastily lifts his legs from foot view, his eyes wide with shock. Waiting for a moment, holding breath deep in his chest. No footsteps followed; the door is too heavy to be a draft. Mere moments feel like years before David cautiously worms his way to his feet. A sensation he knows all too well trickles down his spine, and the feeling of being watched lurches over. Animalistic tingles of flight or fight spark the urge to turn, let curiosity execute the decision. By slowly panning his eyeballs to the right, he can finally see it in his peripheral vision. Up above, in the next cubicle, someone is looking over at him. A mass of sorts unmoving. David’s heart pumps wildly, though his body turns cold. The swallowing, squeezing contractions of his oesophagus echo loudly in contrast to the nothingness around him. He meditatively inhales in preparation to stare back, face the individual observing him. Just as he spins to the right, the mass sinks below. David opens the door and walks round to the neighbouring cubicle. Upon inspection of the interior, he finds nothing.

“Yeah, really funny.” He stammers mildly at the door. After the interruption and forgetting to flush, he returns to his designated cubicle and fumbles with the flush lever. Walking back out into the vastness of the room, it’s now there in the corner. Facing the wall, the dark mass stands stationary by the sink. At first, David rubs his eyes. What he is seeing, he cannot physically perceive. Like a lash stuck to the cornea, or unidentifiable remains of an insect plastered a windscreen, David’s eyeballs struggle to communicate the information to his brain quick enough. Whoever, or whatever this being is, shouldn’t be there. Not in this world.

He begins walking backward at a speed slower than a tortoise, holding his gaze upon the man-shaped optical abrasion before him. Tensing what little muscle he owned, he prepares for the moment that the thing flies toward him. Though it never happens. He backs out of the door, making sure to gently release the squealing hinge. Once it was fully shut, he ran for his life. Snatching and clutching all his belongings, he takes to the PVC door.

Agoraphobia is usually blinding, but David had never been more relieved to be outside. The bus stop is nearby, and he doesn’t have to wait long for the 103. It’s late, everyone is eating tea with their families now. The bus is almost empty, there’s no one except an old man sitting near the back. David barely squats on the lip of a seat in the middle of the bus, making sure to keep his hands to himself in prevention of touching any nasty germs that may be present. Fixating on the red ‘stop’ sign on the yellow handrail, he waits until the bus driver peels away. The journey back round his town was a quick one, and the view from the window was startling. Every stop along the high street yielded more of those embossed black phantoms. Their piercing existence carved into David retina, his fearful focus glides back to the comfort of the red button once again.

One by one, in his peripherals, empty seats begin filling up with shadow men. He opens his bag and tears a page from an accountancy book. Scribbles and scrawls as the black pen crawls, steadily he writes about things in his sight. Those beings of haze maintain their gaze. Darker than coal, penetrating his soul.

Everything around David suddenly dissipates. The bus driver has parked up and is walking to the rear of the vehicle. There, he places his hand on the old man’s shoulders, waking him up from his doze.

“Sorry to wake you, Stuart. This is your stop.”

The old man’s eyes slowly pry open, revealing sunken holes in his visage.

“Can I not stay on for another round, Michael?” Stuart’s fragile capillaries make up a small, bruised hand that gently wraps around the driver’s.

“It’s my last round, I’ve got to get home to the kids, mate.”

Stuart closes his eyes again, loosening his grip on Michael.

“I think it’s my last round too.” He crackles, a singular tear rolling down his wrinkled cheek.

“Michael, I’m starting to think that I’m really lonely.”

“I’m sorry.” The driver mumbles, unsure of what to say.

“Although,” Stuart smiles. “There’s only so much riding and old geezer can do in one day.”

“Can I drop you home?” Michael asks softly.

“It’s alright, I don’t mind walking, and you’ve got your tea to eat.”

The driver helps Stuart to his feet as he shuffles down the walkway. As he reaches David, he stops for just a moment and looks toward him.

“I don’t think you ever really get over it. You only learn to live with it.” Stuart solemnly states. “It’s Friday night, son. Shouldn’t you be with your friends?”

“Come on, Stuart.” Michael impatiently guides him to the door. The frail man poodles along the street, holding his plastic bag of things.

“When there’s no getting over that rainbow.” He sings heartily outside. “When my smallest of dreams won’t come true.”

The driver apologises for the delay and continues his journey. David looks onward for a while before quickly punching the red button.

“Getting off?” Michael questions.

“Yes, I’m going to go to the Oval.”

The driver goes to speak then hesitates. He checks his watch instead.

“I’ll drop you nearby.”

“Thank you.” David breaks a small smile.

Outside the Oval was busy. It may not have been for other people, but for David, it was a lot. He slowly drops from the door of the bus, and they shut behind him. The impending doom washes over once again, his sickness twists around inside. He stares at the ground whilst walking, avoiding eye contact with the patriots outside. Soon enough, those patches scratch into view once again.

“LOOK AT ME.”

A shadow hisses and screeches repeatedly.

“LISTEN.”

Another screams from across the way.

“I AM THE WORD IN YOUR EAR.”

He pushes past and gets inside. Immediately, he is overwhelmed by the sounds of clinking pint glasses, scraping chairs, fruit machines, music, pool, chatter, laughter, singing, shouting, it’s all too much. He becomes entirely overwhelmed.

“David!” A voice calls. “Nice to see you, man.”

Robert is leant against the pool table; his friends bat their eyes.

“Oh, God.” David utters. The expression he wears is that of an animal in headlights. He turns back out the door and into the quiet street. The masses move in close, reaching out to hold him. They’re clearer now. The faces of Andrew, Chris, and his own parents, all dance around as they shriek.

“Stop it, just stop it.” David blubbers, swaying his arms around to waft them away. They dissipate and reform like black mist, covering his eyes and face. He falls to the floor and folds up into a ball. He cries like he never has before.

“David, what’s going on?” A familiar voice asks.

“I saw something I shouldn’t have, and now it’s coming to get me.” He chokes back tears.

“Let’s get you up on your feet mate, ‘cause your making a scene here.”

David is helped up and held by a couple of men. They walk him over to the bench and set him down, sitting down next to him themselves.

“Right. What’s going on, fella?”

“I can’t do this anymore.” He sobs.

“The world is caving in on me, I’m being crushed.”

An arm falls over his shoulders, and one of the men lean in. It’s Chris.

“The world is fine, Dave.” He assures. “You’re the only one crushing you.”

“I can’t do anything right, I’m useless.”

“Did you finish the admin files earlier?” He questions.

“Y-yeah.” He sniffs.

“Well, there you go. I wouldn’t call that useless.”

“But that’s monkey’s work. Child’s play compared to what you do.”

“Dave, my job is easy. What you do, however, keeps the company together. You work harder than anyone does in that office, so don’t think bad of yourself. You’re the glue, my friend.” He pats David’s back.

“Sorry for calling you fat.”

“I could do with losing a little weight,” Chris chuckles. “No one is out to get you, and you can’t let Dave hold you back.”

“We’re all in the same boat.” Robert adds. “It does get hard sometimes, no matter who you are. Just remember that you do have friends, people who care about you. I know things have been hard since the passing of your parents, but we’re always going to be here.”

“We both know you want to leave this place sometimes, Dave.” Chris looks out onto the road. “But if you weren’t here, our lives wouldn’t be the same anymore. You’d be leaving us in a world without you.”

“There may be no getting over it,” Robert continues. “But there’s always learning to live with it.”

“Thank you, both. I think you’ve just saved me.”