She-Swine

The view was impeccable. A clear sightline to the bay, the skyscrapers reflected in its mirror-clean waters. No cracked brick walls, no dumpsters, no billboards, just the city and all its industry.

In her new chair, behind her broad, rosewood desk, Olive grinned. It’s all mine, now, she thought, crossing her legs, fixing a few wisps of silvery hair behind her ears. The office was a triumph unto itself. A wool carpet, mahogany shelves, a broad window that could be frosted with a cloudy sheen of digital noise with the tap of a button.

And it’s large enough to fit my first apartment in, she reckoned, snorting, standing, straightening her pencil skirt, itself more expensive than a month’s rent had been, when she could barely afford to eat.

The office used to belong to her predecessor, David Westbrook. After an unfortunate scandal, in which he was exposed for having a rather lurid affair with his masseur (a comely man, so eager for company, and with such pretty blue eyes. The perfect honeypot, if one knew where to plant it...), he had been pressured to resign by their shareholders. The masseur was summarily fired, she heard, though it was hardly relevant. Westbrook made it out with the usual bundle, pensions, and recommendations from half of the board after he made his apologies and promised to seek ‘rehabilitation’ (word was he already found a role in the governor’s cabinet. Rehab works fast when there’s money to be made. But, I guess that’s the way of most things...). Thus, the desk had been his, same as the carpet, the shelves, everything on them.

He could have at least cleared them out for me, she groaned, running a finger along their spines. Most of them were autobiographies, better men telling gullible men lies about how they ‘made it’. Spoke to the character of the man who collected them (and how easily swayed he was).

Her heart stuttered. A florid spine projected slightly from the others, its texture rough, its title written in silver lettering:

The Flight of the Furies.

Olive quailed, wrinkling her prim nose. It was like finding a pulled tooth in a ruin. Something that should not have been there, but certainly fit the theme.

Her belly churned, and she turned away, pressed the buzzer on her desk.

A lithe girl, her bronze hair wrangled into a tight bun behind her head, opened the door. “What can I do for you, Miss Farrier?” she asked, with an ingratiating smile. She was also Westbrook’s, and, as evidenced by the way her lips trembled as she squeezed them broad, was not enthused by the change in leadership.

Too bad: I won, Olive returned, through an even wider grin. “When you have a moment, Lisa, could you send someone to pack up these books for me?” she said, gesturing to the shelves. “I have my own collection I’d prefer to display. I’d like to project a different image, while I’m here. Something more...” She clicked her tongue, let the moment drag. “...aspirational.”

Lisa’s lips twitched. “I’ll be sure to make some calls,” she said, curtly, trying to duck out.

“Call a carpenter, too.” Olive cast about: the carpet, the desk, the shelves, they were all him. Failure. A ruin to turn away from. “Can do with a few renovations.”

Lisa simply nodded, turning briskly

“After that, you can go,” Olive said, out of hand.

Lisa stopped, looked over her shoulder. “G-go, Miss--?”

Olive smirked, narrowing her eyes, letting the greens work their poison. “You’re dismissed,” she said, with a note of relish. “Please pack your desk and leave once your obligations are fulfilled.” She continued, savouring the rote rhythm of the words, the way they bounced on her tongue. Perfectly within guidelines. Within her power.

Lisa gawped, pinched face pale as a shell. “B-but... Miss Farrier, I didn’t do-- I have kids to-- A mortgage--” She sputtered, different thoughts overlapping, short-circuiting. Like an animal cornered.

Olive softened her smile, like sheathing a knife in cashmere after a stabbing. “Thank you for your contributions to Ferris and Merkel!” She told her, sauntering up to the door, straightening up and flaunting her height, and sliding it slowly shut as Lisa stared, slack-jawed, dew-eyed.

The name plate affirmed her as she turned. Olive Farrier. CMO. She felt a rush in her chest, a strength pulsing out. The carpet, shelves, books, Lisa, all turned to vapour beside her. What she could do.

She dropped back into her plush chair, a queen on her throne, and let it steep.

All mine...

Her heels clicked, echoing through the parking complex. It was late: the carpenter had been meticulous, tearing out the carpet, the shelves, reducing them to detritus along the edges of her office. She decided on cypress for the new desk and shelves, and a silver wool for the carpet. He would work over the weekend, she told him, day and night if needs be. She would be paying a premium, she knew, but she could certainly afford it. Afford a hundred carpenters, working around the clock on every minute inconvenience. Then again, that might not even dent her bottom line, depending on her bonus.

She flicked the lock on her fob, heard the platinum Volvo chirrup as she strode toward it. The complex was chill, barren, filled with oily shadows about corners, between vehicles. The LED above her car flickered sporadically, making her squint, grind her teeth.

Gonna need to file a complaint for that. She groaned, reaching for the door handle.

She craned her head as a glint tugged at the corner of her eye. On the parking pillar, bolted into the concrete, she saw her name and title written on a glossy plaque.

Her own parking spot. Such a small thing, insignificant in the final analysis, but it completed the picture. Told her she’d made it, well and truly.

She was a person. She mattered.

She laughed, a creaky, almost girlish sound that rolled down the concrete inclines.

All mine.

Her ears rang. Her legs buckled beneath her.

She slammed on her back, air pressed from her lungs, eyes blurring. A fog covered her, thoughts vague, shapes in the mist. What happened? Did I trip? Did someone see that? Did they misspell my name?!

Something warm gushed from her chest, spilling down her blouse.

She turned her head, blinked, saw a man stumbling backwards into a pillar. A lean man, dressed in a black sweatshirt, a red balaclava pulled over his mouth and nose.

But she saw his eyes. Pretty and blue.

It all snapped into place. Her blood ran icy cold.

He glared at her a moment, then shoved something black and metal into a trash can before jamming his hands into his pockets and rushing off, into the shadows.

Olive groped at her chest, her belly, her clothes starchy, hot, her fingers trembling.

Why couldn’t she feel anything? If she couldn’t feel anything, did that mean it was good or bad?!

Heels echoed down the complex, rushing, moving toward her. A good samaritan.

Relief burned through her. She dropped her arms to her side, let the wound breathe, closed her eyes. “H-help...” Her voice was raspy, the sound of it sinking her heart. “Sh-shot... need... hospital...”

She opened her eyes, saw a pinched face, bronze hair, done in a messy bun.

“L-Lisa?” She heaved, forcing an ingratiating smile. “H-help...”

Lisa looked at her, expression tilted, one hand hesitantly reaching, pulling back, reaching, pulling back.

It closed, and her face wrinkled, anger burning in hazel eyes.

“My name...” She began, in a husky growl. “...is Diane!” She ground out, eyes rheumy. “Thank you for your contributions to Ferris and Merkel!”

In a blink, she had spun, fled back into the complex, leaving Olive to the silence.

The flickering light.

This isn’t real. Tears flowed down her cheeks. I just fell asleep. Darkness nipped at her eyes. I’ll wake up soon...

It went cold.

“I had it...” She sniffled, with a last, husky breath, as she felt it slip away. “I finally had it all...”