Worn out places, worn out faces
Bright and early for the daily races
Going nowhere
Going nowhere
Their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression
No expression
Hide my head I wanna drown my sorrow
No tomorrow
No tomorrow
I find it hard to tell you
I find it hard to take
When people run in circles
It's a very, very
Mad world
~Gary Jules, Mad World
September 2009
As my twenty fourth birthday loomed, I was realizing that everyone around me was right, and I was acting way too stubborn. I needed to report Mike, and stop thinking I could handle everything on my own. Clearly, I could not.
Edward's party had been great; I was just sad I'd had no part in planning it. I was missing my friends, and my husband, and my parents and in-laws. I wasn't spending nearly enough time with them thanks to my new work hours. We'd moved into the new house, and by we, I mean the others packed and moved my things. I simply drove home to a new place one night. It really was a great house, but it added to my weighing guilt over how much I owed my friends.
Mike was only getting worse. I was wrong about what I'd thought I could handle, because he'd ramped up the sexual innuendos and lurking by my desk and parking space. I knew I was meeting his ridiculous deadlines, and yet he would ask why I arrived late when I was in fact early. He'd ask why I was staying late, when of course the answer was trying to complete my work. He'd ask about specific applicants, knowing he'd reassigned that part of the job to a colleague. Anything to stand over me and make it seem as though I wasn't doing my job properly.
Or to suggest he wanted to have sex with me, which was my breaking point. He'd insinuated plenty, but on a Wednesday afternoon in the beginning of September, he finally went too far. Every other employee had left for lunch, but there I was at my desk, typing away. He never touched me, but he would stand so close I could feel him breathing behind me. I spun in my chair, and my legs knocked into his knees. I raised my eyebrow at him.
"Why do you stand so close?" I demanded, fed up.
He just smiled a greasy smile. "Because I can." He leaned down, his hands on the arms of my chair. I shrank back in my seat. "What are you doing for lunch, Bella?"
He was so close, I could smell his stale breath as he spoke. I felt trapped, literally and figuratively. "Working." It came out in a strangled whisper, rather than with strength like I'd hoped.
"Maybe instead you'd like a little. . .afternoon delight. Would you like that, Bella?" His voice was low and disturbing.
My stomach turned over. "No, Mike, I would not." My voice was still too quiet for my liking. I cleared my throat. "Can I get back to work, now?"
"I'd rather you begged me for what you wanted. I know you'd like it more than you think," he said slyly.
"I-I'm married, for crying out loud!" The idea of anyone besides Edward touching me that way made me sick. I wrapped my arms around my midsection, trying to comfort myself.
"Of course, of course. I'm sure you're wonderful in bed. . . with your husband, that is." He straightened up. "Talk to you later."
I watched him walk away, taking in deep lungfuls of air. My head was spinning, so I dropped it between my legs.
When I'd caught my breath, I pushed my chair back from my desk and took the stairs to the ground floor. I needed some air, and to clear my head before making my way to HR. I paced in circles, my nerves clenching my gut into knots. I checked my watch, wondering how long their department would be out to lunch. Sucking in a breath, I decided to just go, and I would wait in their offices if I had to.
I rode the elevator to the tenth floor, twisting my hands together in front of me. You can do this, Bella. I had to repeat this over and over again in my head as nausea and dizziness threatened to overtake me. The glass outer doors were standing open, so I went on in. The mahogany receptionist's desk was empty, so I stood there for a moment, unsure of what I wanted to do next. I heard footsteps behind me on the industrial green carpet, and I turned around. I recognized the head of the department, Ms. Stanley.
"Isabella?" she asked, and it sounded like she was expecting me.
"Yes. . . How do you know my name?" I swallowed past the hoarseness in my throat.
She smirked. "It's my job to know everyone's name."
I didn't for one second think that she knew the names of all the employees. "I-I need to speak with you about my boss, M-Mike Newton."
"I'm not entirely surprised to see you here, although I can't imagine what you might have to say," she said, somewhat harshly.
She was making less and less sense to me. "Can we, um, go into your office and speak in private?" I had no desire to be standing here making a spectacle of myself when the rest of the department came back from lunch.
"Of course," she replied, heading off down the hall. I followed her into her office. The name placard on her desk read 'Jessica Stanley, Human Resources'. So that's her first name.
Jessica motioned for me to sit in the chair in front of her desk, and I watched her circle around, noting a lack of pictures on her shelves. She only had a few nicknacks and her framed diploma.
"I've had a few. . .issues with my direct supervisor. I don't know where to start, exactly," I began nervously.
Jessica leaned over her desk, resting her palms in the middle of it and staring at me. Her frizzy brown curls hung over her shoulders, blowing a bit in the air conditioning. I leaned back in my seat, confused by her confrontational posture.
"I should tell you that Mr. Newton was in my office this morning, Isabella. He had much to say," she said, shaking her head.
"I don't understand."
She narrowed her sharp blue eyes at me, then flipped open the file folder on her desk. "In May, you started working longer hours, is that correct?"
"Yes, that's a small part of my compla-"
"You work through lunch and stay after office hours, which is against company policy and OSHA regulations. You are required a set amount of breaks, and to not work over 40 hours without direct authorization and subsequent recompense for overtime." She looked up at me.
"That was as a result of the changes made by my new supervisor. I had-have a higher goal and needed to put in more hours to complete my work as a result. I've not asked for overtime." I bit my lip nervously at her line of questioning.
"I see. So you are unable to meet the requirements of your job description as it stands currently?"
"Why are you asking me these questions? I've only just now come to you, and you're put in place to protect me from a male supervisor who feels the need to work me to death and then lurk by my vehicle and suggest I have sex with him!" I finally exploded. I didn't even realize that I'd stood up, and was now face to face with Ms. Stanley. My chest was heaving at her accusations.
"I haven't even reached that portion of your supervisor's complaint," she said derisively. "I think you should have a seat, Ms. Swan."
"I'll stand," I spit out. "What accusations?"
She was tapping a pen in an annoying staccato rhythm on the file. "In June, when Mr. Newton was here late for a meeting, he discovered you in the parking garage, waiting for him."
I gasped. "You have got to be kidding me!"
She glanced down at the file, then back at me. "When he asked if you needed an escort to your vehicle due to the lateness of the hour and darkened garage, you suggested he, and I quote, 'go get him some'. In July, you started coming in earlier and standing outside his office, waiting for him. Then, just last month, you started making more suggestions that inferred you would exchange sexual intercourse with him for an adjusted workload."
I sank into the seat blindly, staring at this woman spewing lies in my face. "He actually came in here and said these things, and you took a report? You're taking him seriously?" I asked in disbelief.
"This very morning," she continued as if I hadn't spoken, "you were lurking outside his office and told him you were great in bed, and that he would enjoy himself if he would just accept your offer." Finally, she looked up from the file she had been reading from. I felt my stomach lurch at the look on her face. "Isabella Swan. . .oh, I apologize, Isabella Cullen, you are unable to perform your duties as outlined in your job description. You have made several references of a sexual nature to your direct supervisor, as well as stalking him." She raised a brow, and it might as well have been the ax on a guillotine. I knew what was coming, and the room spun before me. "Subsequently, you are hereby terminated from your position as admissions coordinator for the University of Washington." She paused, and I saw an evilness in her eyes. She was enjoying herself. "Collect your things and leave the building quietly, or security will escort you to the garage." I knew she was hoping I'd make a scene so she'd have the perverse pleasure of calling security on me.
She was positively gleeful at having just fired me, and I would not give her the satisfaction. I stood on shaky legs, forcing the tears I felt pricking behind my eyes to remain where they were until I left her disgusting presence. "I have not, I repeat, not, done any of these things you are accusing me of," I said through gritted teeth.
She tsked. "I am not your accuser, you silly girl. Now leave." Jessica pointed to her door, and I stumbled around the chair and walked on numb legs out of her office and swiftly down the hall. I would not cry in front of her.
I used the elevator to make my way back to my desk, and retrieved my bag before I took my framed wedding picture and carefully tucked it inside. I had an empty plastic leftovers container, and I took that too. Blinded by the tears that were threatening to fall, I tripped my way to the staircase and blundered my way down. I made it to the truck without falling on my face, and then I locked myself inside before letting out the wail that was choking me.
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