Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-36127905-20180709054203

The fluorescent lights ahead droned on, like some hellish swarm of flies, their only motive to torment poor Jeremy. His feet ached and throbbed in his too tight shoes. His work uniform was overly starched, and very scratchy. He could feel the tag grate against his neck, the very texture like sandpaper to his already troubled psyche.

Jeremy, like many young men in this country, was forced to work two jobs. He hated them both with a passion. His first job as a screen- printers assistant was likeable at times. His boss was compassionate, and regularly gave him breaks or small moments to talk and be human. Here at the Quick-e-Mart was a different story entirely.

The small convenience store was barren of any life or personality of it's own. The off-white walls, the checkered tile flooring, the myr- iad of posters with their bright, desperate advertisements. And worst of all to young Jeremy: The fluorescent lighting above. Just thinking about it made his skin crawl, and his stomach roil.

The lights were constant. Never ending, always droning above head. As if the constant whine of the lights was some dark parable about his own soul, his own mortality. The white walls and polished floors didnt help, reflecting the harsh white lights just slightly enough. There was no escaping the lights for poor Jeremy, his senses being ground into a dull roar by their constant torment.

There was also the issue of the management to consider. Cynthia. Aft- er only one year of working at the Quick-e-Mart, Jeremy was convinced that Cynthia was a genuine sadist. She would make Jeremy stay late, giving him no warning or reason. She would use any excuse she could find to embarass or demean poor Jeremy. The verbal abuse was almost never ending. Perhaps she was just deeply unhappy, or maybe she was genuinely evil.

It was a combination on Cynthia's unending abuse, and the grinding ZZZ of the overhead lights, and the tightness in his shoes, and his lack of sleep that lead to Jeremy's very bad day.

He had been standing behind the register for six and a half hours, by the time Cynthia arrived. She was supposed to have worked this shift alongside Jeremy (who, in all honesty, did not mind her absence, and in fact welcomed it). She was regularly late, and acted as though she was above the rules of even her own scheduling. This routinely left the other staff members under her to fill in the gaps of her awful routine and planning.

Finally, after having been en absentia for over half of their communal shift, the bell over the front door chimed merrily. 'DEE DOO, DEE DOO' it sang, as happy and mechanical as an animatronic Santa Claus. As the doors of the store slid open on their electronic track, Cynthia entered. Her plastic heels clicked sharply against the waxed tiles of the floor. Her bright, red, leather bag slung casually over her shoulder, and the jacket denoting her as a manager of the store tied around her waist, she began to walk towards the back office. Standing at only 5 feet tall, every inch of Cynthia was pure hate to young Jeremy. Middle aged, her hair dyed a vibrant, silvery blonde, and her tartly sweet perfume foll- owing her like some aura of rot, this was the boogeyman who haunted Jeremy's dreams at night.

After depositing her bag and jacket in the back office, she strode dire- ctly and confidently towards Jeremy. Her lips pursed, her eyes narrowed, Jeremy knew that he was a target to this vulture of insanity. As she came to a sharp stop, standing in front of Jeremy, she crossed her arms. This was always a sign of harrasment to come. Jeremy braced himself. He had to physically bite his tongue, to stop himself from breaking down or be- coming sick. Cynthia's lips parted, and she drew in her first breath. The tyrade against Jeremy began.

"You know, you always look like some sick fucking lizard to me Jeremy. Did you know that? Like some ugly cunt lizard." she began, trying to crack his aloof facade. "If we couldn't find someone dumber than you to fill this night shift spot, I would personally kick your useless ass out- side. But unfortunately I don't think anyone less intelligent than you could possibly survive past birth. Did your parents even HAVE any kids that lived, or are all your family as imbred as you are?" she continued. This was only the beginning. Soon, she would begin to attack his work ethic, his productivity, his sex life, his sexual orientation, and even his religious beliefs if she had to stoop that low. To Cynthia, it was all a psychological game. To poor Jeremy, it was hell on earth.

"......doubt you've ever seen a naked woman, other than your sister you greasy fuck. Are you listening? Hey, hey i'm talking to you!" Cynthia snapped. Jeremy had begun to zone out, listening to the grinding, hellish drone of the lights to avoid the constant stream of hatred directed towards him. His eyes regained focus, staring slightly down at Cynthia, who's face was red with frustration at Jeremy's lack of response. "Well, are you going to respond, or do you just know how fucking worthless you are? Well? WELL?!? Answer me you prick!" she said, stepping forward to jab her chubby fingers into Jeremy's chest. Jeremy smiled, and muttered something along the lines of ".....gotta take a piss, be back in a second". Cynthia watched as Jeremy slowly paced away towards the restrooms, feeling satisfied that she had hurt him. Maybe he would go in there to cry! Cynthia could only hope.

In the small employee bathroom, Jeremy now stood. The door locked. His reflection in the mirror the only companion, and even this lone specter of humanity interuppted by the sticker reading 'All Employee's Must Wash Hands Before Returning to Work'. Above the porcelain toilet was a poster, set there to remind workers to check their clothes, and to abide by the strict dress code of the Quick-E-Mart. Khakis, well ironed and pleated. Check, Jeremy thought to himself. Blue or white button up shirt. Check, Jeremy noted to himself, looking at his blue buttong up, tucked into his tan pants. Blue worker's vest, displaying name tag. Check as well, said Jeremy to himself.

Beneath the sink, where the cleaning chemicals were normally stored, was what Jeremy had truly come in here for. A gallon container of gasoline, that he had stashed here days and days ago. He could smell the petrol fumes, even above the other pungeant odors of the cleaning chemicals for the toilet and sink. He glanced at himself in the mirror. Tired. All he could see was a man who was tired. He did not recognize him. His skin, pale and malnourished. His eyes, sunken and bruised wounds in his face. Small patches of stress acne had formed around his chin and fore- head, the only contrasting color to his otherwise gaunt visage. He gave himself a small, sad grin in the mirror. This was it, he thought. Showtime.

Jeremy began to pour the gasoline over his head. The icy touch of the stringent chemical focring him to gasp, like a shower turned cold. The smell made his eyes water. His skin became irritated almost inst- antly. He could feel his clothes become heavier with the moisture. His socks became cold, and a puddle formed around his feet. He felt in his pockets for his lighter. Check, he thought, much like he had done with his work uniform. He turned to face the door. He knew what he must do now. The door to the small, men's restroom swung open. 