My Hell

Creative Writing:

My Hell



As I walk up the 36 steps, my hatred begins to grow within me. With each step I take, my legs feel heavier and my jaw begins to clinch harder. The people around me rush around me, often times bumping into me, to get to work. I take my time. I am in no rush to sit inside the place I despise for eight hours. As I begin my slow stride towards the turnstiles, I find my identification card, and I look at it. The card feels heavy in my hand; on it my picture of my once-happy self is in the corner with the words “Cadwalader” written in a perfect font of Times Roman in a shade of royal blue. I swipe my card, and walk towards the elevators.
I look at the people around me, wearing fake smiles, and perfect business-casual outfits. I press the button for the elevator and wait. As I shuffle into the elevator, I press the number eight and move to the back of the elevator. People are casually talking about the weather, the stock market, and personal dilemmas. People begin to trickle out, one floor at a time, until I am usually the only one left. The elevator then creeps slowly to my floor, and as the door opens, I take a deep breath to prepare for the long day ahead.
As I walk down the long row of cubicles, I can hear the pecking of keys, the low murmurs of people on the phone, and the click-clacks of high heels walking. Once I get to my desk, I pause to take in what my day will be filled with. I look at the computer, the tower’s green light blinking ever so slowly. The monitor is covered in multi-colored post-it notes with attorney names and ID code numbers on them; along with random subtle notes from my Dominican desk neighbor.
The metal shelf on the left holds papers rubber banded together, with yellow post-its saying “file asap” in blood red ink. Beneath the shelf there is a metal organizer holding white sheets of labels; big ones, small ones. To the right is yet another metallic organizer, holding blue sheets, and countless blue folders.
I sit at my desk, turn my monitor on and type in my password. The sound of Windows XP loading explodes from the speakers. As I begin to settle into my hell hole, I notice my chair has been recently adjusted by someone other than me. This instantly triggers a sudden spike in my rage. After it is adjusted, I open my email and begin sorting through the bolded emails. “So and so will not be in today…” or “Audit Inquiry for so and so received…” fills up my inbox. I highlight all, and delete.
I sit there, and I close my eyes. I take a deep breath. With that breath, I smell my supervisor’s breakfast: egg whites with peppers, onions and mushrooms, with a side of bacon. I keep my eyes closed, trying to steady my heart rate, trying to push down my anger and bitterness. I hear the heavy footsteps of people walking back and forth, greeting everyone in their path, “good morning!” I ignore their fake-polite gestures. I begin to hear the printer turning on, and spitting out paper after paper. After a while, my ears begin to muffle all of these sounds, and I just sit there rubbing my temples. Maybe if I click my heels three times, I’ll open my eyes and be home.
Suddenly, a voice that makes a baby’s scream sound like birds singing interrupts my silence. “Danielle! Danielle!” I look up, and I see my supervisor. A very short woman with fire-like hair pops up. Her face is old and worn, crow’s feet and laugh lines cover her face. I see her lips moving, but all I hear is mumbled words with a thick Polish accent. I don’t have to listen to know what she’s telling me. With this one way conversation, my work day beings.
Throughout the day, I file sheets of white and pink paper away, write notes on post-its, and I dully click the keys on the keyboard. To drown out the noises, I listen to music on full blast, hoping no one will interrupt me. I stare at the computer screen at the program in which my eyes have grown to know like the back of my hand. The green and yellow folders fill up the screen, with the large capital letters stating “CORRESPONDENCE”, “ATTORNEY’S WORKPAPERS”, “RECRODED DOCUMENTS.” After a few hours, my eyes begin to blur, and I switch to something else that wont cause further blindness. I file papers away, I staple them, hole punch them, and slip them into the baby blue folders. A sting overwhelms my body; my bitterness and rage fills up, and I can nearly taste it in the back of my throat. I look down at my hands. Another paper cut to add to the collection. The bright red liquid begins to stain my nails. I take a deep breath, and return to my tedious work. Staple, punch, slide. Staple, punch, slide. I click on the mouse from time to time, then I staple, punch, and slide. This is my day. This is my cubicle. This is my hell.