THREE- CASSANDRA

The moment the elevator doors open, I spit myself out and hurriedly walk towards the double doors, the only thing promising freedom at the moment. I wanna get outta here.

Not so fast though, ‘cause Charity wants to make my day worse. She looks up from her computer the moment I walk past her.

“Ah, going out already, Catherine?” she beams, and at first, my heart goes like, she ain’t that bad. But anger seeps in again, and especially because she called me CATHERINE! Is her brain that old?

“The name’s Cassandra, ma’am, and I’m Miss Mayor to you. Also, yes, I’m heading out. Great day,” I bark in one go and storm out. I hear her say something like, ‘jeez don’ be mad girl. Didn’t know you ain’t sociable’. I walk towards my car hurriedly, my head boiling with rage. Why today, of all days? I shouldn’t have brough Vivian here. I could’ve avoided that man altogether. Now I feel bad for leaving that girl all alone. But she can handle it, right? That’s what I want to believe. But it had to be M & C because they’re good and my wallet can afford them without whining.

I slam the driver’s door shut and bang my head on the driving wheel. Mark Edwards. Stupid freak. Why did he smile at me? He disgusts me. I want to send him to hell over and over, on behalf of his freaking brother. I see he’s still well. Smiling, healthy and rich. I’m not smiling. Maybe I’m healthy, but I’m not happy as he is. Jeez, God, I just want to be left alone. And he had the audacity to call my name on his filthy lips!

I simmer down and drive myself to work. Can’t miss my job for some prick who doesn’t deserve my attention anymore. I take a glance of myself in the rearview mirror. My lipstick is still intact, but my eyes look dark, drained of life. It’s scary how people from my past hold power over me like that. People with harsh and overly bright demeanour hide the darkest insecurities in their hearts. That’s somewhat true about me. It may even be a straight description of who I am. A careful, free-spirited bubble of joy, someone who sets her boundaries clear, knows what she wants, et cetera, yet inside, there is a little traumatised girl who might just die any moment…

I walk into the elevator. My office is on the third floor, and the familiarity of this place calms me. I’m alone in here, which means I’m late. Not so late, though, because I know a certain someone who’s never been at work on time except on the day she got interviewed. She’s like a close friend, best friend even. Her name is Madeline. I call her Maddy, and she hates it.

I walk into the spacious corridor before the elevator doors even think of closing. I’m a little on the edge, and this is not acceptable at work. The clack, clack of my heels echoes as I make my way to the door at the end of this long infuriating and overly bright hallway. Whirls of printers, air cons and RnB fill the air, and I feel sick from it.

 Today is not my day.

The pinewood door greets me, the words R.T engraved on top, and I take a deep breath before grabbing the knob. I have to quit being dramatic.

I stride inside, only to be welcomed by the usual tapping of keyboards, smells of coffee and stale burgers, blinding glares from the mid-morning sun and gloomy faces. That’s my office to you. The familiar facing cubicles beckon me to my little cell, and I place my bag on my desk; the only spacious desk in this room.

I glance to my left, where I always get greeted by the sight of Madeline, but as I said, she is a late comer so, I might have to wait for half the day.

On my right is Peter, the mute in our group, and by mute, I mean the person who only speaks when he feels like doing it. He’s so serious, and I might be second or third in the rank. I pull my chair and flop down, smoothening my cardigan and switching on my computer. The monitor flickers to life, and I get prompted for a passkey. Time to work.

“Is it just me or Cassie ain’t talking today?” a sweet singsong voice directly opposite my cubicle inquires and it takes me minutes to realise she’s asking about me. I continue writing my evaluation on the novel I was reading, because Fridays mean I have to hand in reports and hold office meetings with these spoiled brats.

“Maybe she upgraded her mute rank,” a low bass responds from across the room, and I can’t mistake Harry’s voice for another. This man, despite his monstrous age, has a reasoning like that of a teen who has just gotten his first stash of acne.

“Uh-oh,” Joy replies, her eyes peering discreetly at me through her rows of bushy-fake lashes. She has this angelic sweet voice that betrays her muddied character. She’s still a nice person though, and the youngest on our team too.

“Perhaps you should have asked me directly, don’t you think?” I look directly at her and watch her hold my gaze. Such a bad girl. Her eyes gleam as her face turns into a smile so sweet and disgusting that I might puke right in her face. I’ve let my emotions loose, dammit.

Before she can think of another phrase to rile me up, the door bursts open, like literally, and Madeline storms in. She looks around and meets my eyes. Her expression lights up. Her hands are populated with two mugs of coffee, her phone- which is hanging as if it is attempting suicide- her mammoth of a handbag and some papers which mostly rest on her arms. I shake my head.

She walks towards me and dumps her baggage on my table, mainly because hers is as messy as her bedroom. Which, ladies and gentlemen, is a chaotic sight to behold.

“Hi everyone? What’s good? Oh hey, Joy, I like that wig. Blonde ladies in the room, huh? Hey Harry, I see ya, man! Good morning, Sir Pitta Pakka,” she says, giving fist bumps to Harry and Murphy, and walks around to Joy so as to feel her wig, which I hadn’t noticed earlier. The ‘Pitta Pakka’ thing is her way of greeting Peter, which seldom earns her a reply, but she gets away with it. She moves to her cubicle and sits on her chair, immediately rotating it to face me.

“Oh, I forgot Mrs Keyes,” she says apologetically to a calm Mrs Keyes who looks as tranquil as the lady in the painting that’s hanging on the wall which I face.

“Good morning, Madeline,” Mrs Keyes says and offers a generous smile. My best friend melts.

“How are you, Mrs Keyes? You look beautiful today,” she says and smiles brightly at the lady. Mrs Keyes is perhaps the only well composed and matured person among us. I don’t regard Peter’s verbal distance as maturity. It’s something other than that.

After the exchange of pleasantries has abated, Madeline turns to me and says, “want a coffee?”

“Honestly, you came late and the first thing you did is to hit the coffee urn?” I reply and look at her with disbelief. It’s not strange, but her reasoning is way too dynamic.

“You’re welcome, and just drink already. You’re an ungrateful daughter of Jerusalem. Tsk. Women nowadays,” she grumbles and mutters, logging into her computer, saying something about starving kids who might need the coffee more than me.

I watch her loosen her tie and take off her jacket. She drapes it on the back of her chair and sips her coffee. It burns her a little, and she recoils, luckily without spilling it over her paperwork, or her suit like she always does.

She’s in a sky-blue dress shirt today, tucked neatly in her brown slacks. Her tie is dark-blue with some earth brown streaks. Her feet are in her favourite black wedges, which I watch her take off, as per habit and personal taboo. Her motto is to only wear shoes when she’s moving reasonably.

I go back to typing my review on the pre-published work of fiction, feeling a sense of insight and satisfaction as I press down every letter. For a while, I forget my misery.

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