Chapter 1
It was a wonderful morning, creeping inside the bedroom like an obsessive stalker: slowly advancing towards the pronounced eyebags of an overworked, overly tired, and understandably pissed off office worker. And he groaned like any of us, slackers, would if we were ever unfortunate enough to be in his shoes.
But, he was different; he had been working since he was twelve and lived by words like responsibility and discipline.
They weren't just words to him; they were a way of life: a life choice made by everyone else around him. He helped run the family business; by running around the restaurant like a dog chasing a stick you pretend to throw.
He woke up daily at 5 am to go to university, which meant a two-hour commute. He would use those hours wisely: by studying and finishing his projects, with his back turned, as if the other commuters would copy his homework.
And now, every morning since completing his studies, he would pour and pour into the glass of corporate management.
Because of his introverted nature, the manager appreciated piling up his work on Andrew's desk.
The stack should have reached the ceiling by now, were it not for Andy's effective and efficient eye for detail, which could spot mistakes like an eagle on the hunt for vermin scattered in a field.
But this was not talent; it was experience and repetition.
Andrew had one flaw: he could only learn from his own mistakes. Otto Van Bismarck would call him a moron for it. But were he alive today and haughty enough to say it to our underappreciated and underrested office worker, he would soon learn that the only reply to a quip is a jab to the nozzle. At work, Andrew was a mountain of patience, but he erupted as soon as he left the building.
"BAM!" He instantly opened his eyes to the sight of another stack of files plopped on his desk, courtesy of Josh.
"Morning, lazy bum!" Smirked at his irredemable kiss-ass coworker.
"I need this finished by the end of the day. You can take care of it, can't you?" And he rushed with a beaming smile to greet the higher-ups by the water cooler.
"What is this?!" Andy got up from his seat to yell at his childhood rival.
"Your work! That's what. I have to prepare for a presentation."
"This isn't how it works!" Andrew protested. But his strike was busted when Josh turned to the manager and asked innocently:
"Sir, I asked Andrew to cover for me, but he refuses, even though I have other responsibilities. What should I do?"
"What should you do? Do what you all should: what I tell you to!"
The manager turned with an indignant look towards Andy's perceived insubordination.
"As should you."
"You are a team player, aren't you, Andrew?"
"Yes, sir."
"Atta' boy!"
And as the two left, Andrew felt his head as heavy as the burdens tasked to him. His whole life: work at home, work at school, work at work. What's even the point of life if you're always too tired and defeated when you're off the clock?
"Bzzzzz"
"Bzzzzzzz"
"What the- clock?! The clock! I'm late! I fell asleep again!"
As he jumped out of bed, he started avoiding the obstacles randomly scattered across the floor: pizza boxes, paper trash, and the classic dirty socks. He ran to the balcony, half-naked, and grabbed his dress shirt, which he had previously ironed the night before. The balcony was his haven: the only area without a musky smell or notes of stinkiness. You could only sense a slight tinge of cigarette smoke trapped in his clothes.
As he rushed back in, in the madness of it all, he crashed into the ironing board. Oh, the irony.
He screamed from the bottom of his heart and the tip of his tiny toe:
"FUUUUCK!"
As he made his way through the hallway, he tried to unlock the door, but became confused when turning the key.
Turn it twice to the left? Locked?
Thrice to the right? Locked!
Three times to the left? FUCK YOU!
As he had lost his patience already when he stubbed his toe, he grabbed the door handle and maniacally pushed it down like some brainless brute, before finally kicking the door twice in anger.
He looked down and noticed that he had double locked the door with the tiny lock as well.
He sighed so hard that the frustration filled the room with an aroma of agony and despair. Which, combined with the unpleasant odor of his one-room apartment, was a recipe for depression.
