Inspired by 9 to 5 by Dolly Parton.

Brrrrrringgg. Brrrrrrrrringgg. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrriiiinnnnnggggg.

Ugh. I bury myself under the duvet, reaching around blindly for my alarm clock. Nope, that’s my lamp. My glasses. My book. Wait- there. I screw my eyes shut, half hoping that I’ll fall asleep again, and wondering what’s the worst thing that would happen if I did. I could’ve sworn I’d only been asleep for ten minutes. Nothing much I can do about that now, though. I stretch my aching arms above my head, a reluctant sigh escaping my lips. Time to start another day. Terrific. 

Five minutes of staring at the ceiling later, I tumble out of bed and stumble through my one bedroom flat to the tiny, cramped kitchen, somehow managing to bang my head on the handle of a cupboard on my way to turning on the percolator. As it hums awake and starts heating up my coffee, I wander over to my mug collection and pick out my favourite one – it’s bright yellow, and has big, block letters in hot pink that spell out the words “CUP OF AMBITION”. There’s nothing like excessive optimism to get you through your morning routine. Once the machine’s done its job, I pour myself a drink, take a few deep, shaking breaths, and try to come to life.

After a quick shower and an even quicker (failed) attempt at making myself look presentable for work, I’m out on the streets, avoiding the streams of traffic that aim toward the city centre. Walking with much more enthusiasm than I feel inside, I head to the office for yet another day of collecting papers from the fax machine, sorting them, filing them, doing whatever tasks my boss gives me, and repeating all of that over, and over, and over, and over, and over. And over. Again.

I answer the phone, schedule meetings, type up reports, order supplies, and keep going, keep working, until my fingers are cramping from the effort and my eyes are blurring from looking at white paper, white screens, white walls, white everything. 

The whole office is painted white - not a fresh snow white or soft egg shell white, but a bare, clinical shade of paint that makes you feel like you’re working in a hospital, not an office. When you start working here, you don’t notice it so much, but after years of coming in every day and seeing those stark white walls, it becomes hard to ignore. It’s as if someone has come in with a giant syringe and drained the life right out of the building. 

It's not exactly the shining, friendly workplace I’d imagined when I first moved to LA from Tennessee. But hey, it pays the bills, I guess. Barely. 

After finishing a particularly tedious and gruelling task, I put my head in my hands, close my eyes for just a few seconds, and try to calm my racing thoughts.

“Violet,” a voice barks from beside my cubicle. I jerk my head out of my hands and blink up at the source of the reprimand. Franklin, my boss, looms over me, his face painted with a sneer of disgust. “Need I remind you that you’re here to work, not to sit around meditating or whatever the hell you’re doing here?”

Asshole. 

“Sorry, Mr Hart,” I say sweetly, plastering a demure, apologetic smile on my face as I reach for another stack of the papers heaped on my desk. No lunch break for me again, then. I sigh, and keep working, pulling a face at Franklin Hart’s back as he returns to his office. 

I swear, sometimes, that man is out to get me. I just can’t prove it. Yet.