Whispers & Hurtbeats

Flames and flakes

                                                                                      Yushra

'You. Are. Fired.'

'But-Why?'

'Go.'

'Wh-what did I even do?'

'Clean the dust off your desk drawers before you go.'

'I've been working here for five years even before you entered the company-'

'Also give me all the papers as those won't need to be in your house.'

'And we also have a good relation-'

'Touché, how you think we still have a good relationship.'

'I didn't do any such thing to deserve being fired like you're shooing some random dog away from your slaughtering office!', Suhana raised her voice at a dangerously high level now.

She made the same mistake again, which was why she got her salaries half for one month when she started working here for my dad.

How funny, isn't it?

How abstractly funny that she imagines she can be pocking me for the fact that she entered the show even before I did and then talk about a good relationship? So delusional of her.

I wasn't feeling like even looking at her, the unknown burn of anger flashed inside my chest when I, at last, did.

'Slaughtering, is it?'

Her eyes deflected with.... Is that fear that I just saw? Yeah, it actually was. That's so nice my staff now know what my tone and stare describe.

I secured my hair with that glossy purple scrunchie I disliked initially, but have been liking for a week and I don't know why, maybe the blame is on my period.

Ah... that might be the reason why I liked, furiously liked something- or someone (the specific group of men) that I don't like in general. I felt a bit conceived, having at least one reasonable reason.

I let Suhana live in the utmost fear, with her face turning paler.

And just when the fear painted blue on her dummy face, I stood up from my chair and walked over from the table, positioning myself to face her directly, humming Taylor Swift's Style in a calm tone.

Suhana looked to the left side, knowing that I knew there was nothing to eye right at this moment, her fingers fiddled, forehead sweating, the tall and thin poster felt of hers cowered down, looking shorter than me.

The image of her standing in front of him is seared into my mind. She appeared shorter than him, making me wonder how I would be standing next to him.

Am I picturing myself beside him? Who am I?