Etched

Chapter 7

I'm currently sitting in my office seat, shifting and squirming in place, trying anything to everything in order to rest my foot in a compromising position just enough to ease the pain. I flinch my eyes shut to gulp in the anguish bursting through my limb. The discomfort paralyzing my working capabilities, distracting me from working at a regular pace.

I've been successful in drawing out one of the shards, that had gone deeper inside my flesh, because of the pressure that I'd been exerting on my foot due to sprinting and hopping my way towards the desk but there still remain more. My flats are lined with layers and layers of tissues so as to soak up as much blood as they possibly can, but it seems like I'll be needing more since it's been longer than an hour and the flow of blood isn't even close to waver. It's flowing as uncontrollably as it had just needed a gash, a slight cut to pour it all out. As it had been waiting to have an outlet, a way to physically spray out all that I'd been facing.

Any sort of minimal movement is sending my body to a complete frenzy, resulting me wincing and flinching, yet enduring the pain, just so I can last till my shift goes off and my work seems to complete. The task which normally took me mere seconds to do now being a deed of hours.

After what seems like forever, I am finally mailing the statistics to Lanter for approval.

Looking down at my feet, I sigh. The flooring under my desk is smeared with blood making it look all kinds of disgusting and abhorrent. Pulling off wet wipes from inside my drawers, I clean the surface, the throb in my foot not getting positively affected by the exercise in anyway. Better yet, it turns worse.

After sanitizing my hands, I pack my bag, going slower than usual discreetly eyeing to see how many people are around.

The colleagues start vacating the floor at their due time with satisfaction and tiredness on their faces, while I sit back for it to go all clear so that I'm able to move swiftly without catching any eye, because who's got time for sympathies?

The remaining 'self proclaimed' couples who actually are buddies for funny businesses are passing curious and annoyed glances at me, the reason clear as day, that they want to stick behind to 'make out'. Which is in fact, a common knowledge  to all the people of this department, since they've witnessed it quite a many times, except by our very oblivious Lanter.

Who knows if that's what they are thinking about me right now? I shake my head at the thought, plucking up courage and head to leave even if its hurting my blood drenched foot. Because who in their right mind would want to sit back for a show of tonsil hockey. Eww.

Also, the people who are left behind wouldn't have a care of this world even if incase they notice, which is what I want, ignorance, anything but pity. 

The people who would care about me or my doings probably left by now or so I hope they did.

Standing up, I grasp the slab when I feel a wave of faintness dancing around my vision, blurring my surroundings. Straightening, I lift my sling bag across my shoulder. I grab my possessions and make my way towards the elevator and boy! was it hard. It was as though I had stones tied to my body and was made to hop on needles.

I wait as patiently as I can while leaning my weight on my good foot. My hands are slightly shaking and I feel sort of light headed. Shaking my head to regain some strength and balance, I wait some more. I clutch at my bag, my nails digging in my flesh just to make myself feel the presence of life inside, even if it was in the form of pain I'm inflicting on myself. Because at that moment, I felt lost just as I'd collapse in any given second. As though my body was giving up, wanting to lose itself in nothingness.