Can’t Go Back, Must Go Back

A short story. By Emma Brattin.

San Francisco, California. April 2011. Photography by Emma Brattin.

I knew I’d be late again the moment my eyes opened. I squeezed them shut quickly, hoping to regain the soft whispers of a dream I’d been tossed out of. The feeling of the dream was so close, so fresh, but I couldn’t remember what images lay inside. I gave up and opened my eyes. Turning my head towards the window I could tell the sun was well in the sky. Here we go again, I sighed. Willing my brain to tell my body to move, I began the routine of readying myself for work.

            One hour later, wearing heeled black boots, brown-fitted skirt, and a purple and brown blazer, I descended the second story stairs of my flat to the main exit. Opening the door caused a vacuum effect in the hallway and my blonde hair flew into my face. So glad I curled it today, I thought sarcastically. The sky was gray and damp as I walked quickly up the sidewalk to Charlies Street where my week-day job awaited my arrival. Tucking my blazer closer to my waist, I began to feel the usual pre-work anxiety. Nobody likes me there. Why do I even go? I’ll probably be fired today. I’ve been late every day this week. Four days in a row is a fireable offense, I’m sure. I’m not even that good. They definitely should fire me. Maybe then I’d be free.

            “Stop it!”, I said out loud to myself, startling a dog just about to use a weathered fire hydrant on the sidewalk. The equally weathered owner stared at me confused, and I shrugged. “Not you, sorry.” I began shivering as I looped a wide berth around the poor dog and man and continued to the office building.

I should’ve felt relief entering the vestibule of the large building, out of the cold, but all I felt were more degrading thoughts. I entered the elevator with eleven other suited humans all looking like they do something important. My hands began to sweat, and my knees felt weak. It’s okay, we do this every day. Only a few more seconds! The elevator dinged at floor eight and me and four others exited the crowded elevator. I momentarily breathed a sigh of relief before the next wave crashed into me.

            What if someone’s already taken over your desk and they just forgot to tell you you’re fired? Maybe you’ll be escorted out like Jerry was last month when he threatened the office. Has anybody threatened the office since then? Before? What if he left a bomb that hadn’t detonated yet? Did he hate you enough to find you at your house?

            “Megan?” someone said interrupting my doomsday panic attack. I refocused my attention and saw my boss Debbie staring over her bifocals looking concerned. Debbie was short, heavy, and had certainly been at a desk all her life. She had short arms and sat really close to the desk but had to lean over her tummy to reach the keyboard. She looked like a hunchback with bright red curls spilling over her forehead. “Megan are you okay?” Debbie asked again scrunching her nose to keep the bifocals from slipping further.

            “Ah, sorry. Yes. Had an issue at home I had to see to. I promise this isn’t going to be the new norm.” I walked quickly to my cubicle and sat down, plopping my head into my hands as if it weighed the same as the building I sat in.

I didn’t like lying to Debbie, but I had no better excuse. Couldn’t just burst out and say I have severe anxiety coming here since Jerry’s drama. Everybody else seemed fine, I should be, too. The company had provided ‘safe people to talk to’ after the event, but I didn’t know what to say. And the rest of the week off certainly didn’t help, either. I’d paced my apartment for three hours straight and then proceeded to rip apart four books before I realized what I was doing. Then the following morning everybody showed up to work and just existed as if nothing had happened, so I followed along. I didn’t want to interrupt the flow; we were a productive team.

Lifting my head I logged into my computer and began my morning tasks. Every once in a while, the feeling of the dream I’d woken up from this morning nagged at me. There was a peaceful feeling to it, as if something good had occurred in my dream. Wonder what I dreamt about? I usually only dream about Jerry and the office incident. How he…

Rhonda the mail lady dropped a stack of envelopes on my desk making me jump. Cool, let’s make my heart race even more. I rolled my eyes and started sorting the envelopes by priority. I stopped suddenly and a chill went up my spine when I came across a pale-yellow envelope with perfect handwriting addressed to:

Megan Darning

Customs

c/o Finals International

1 Charlies Way

Stantsville, MO  13302

No dear God this can’t be. No, no, no. I started breathing fast. I’d recognize that handwriting anywhere – it belonged to Jerry. Jerry and I had worked closely. He was obsessed with sticky notes. There were sticky notes on his computer, his chair, his cubicle walls, even on the men’s bathroom mirror. He’d been complimented for his perfect handwriting which he called a ‘scrawl’.

I felt like I was going to throw up, my whole body sweating. What does he want? Should I call the police? Isn’t he in jail?? Is he coming for me again?!

I started sobbing, big deep choking breathes between shaky murmurs of words. I knew he wasn’t finished here. He’ll come back and finish us off! 

I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped out of my chair.