Cassandra

She shut down her computer, its fading lights reminiscent of her dimming interest in her career, or at the very least, her part in this particular corporation's future. She pushed away from her desk, swung her faux leather executive chair to face the twenty-fourth floor windows of her corner office, and looked out on the city that her company virtually owned. Try as she might, she just couldn't be bothered.

Perhaps it was the time; it was late, and she felt the tiredness creep into her bones. But no, that wasn't it. No amount of sleep, save perhaps a quick and merciful death, could refresh her outlook on things. She had slowly slid down the slope of cynicism, and there was no escape. She wondered where her youthful, idealistic self had gone, and why it had been replaced by this drone with an infallible sense of futility. She hated being cynical; she hated it even more when people indubitably proved her right.

Enough was enough.

For a moment, she cursed the fact that skyscrapers weren't built with windows that opened. Not that she would throw herself to the sidewalk far far below; that had never been her scene, and she doubted any amount of corporate indoctrination could push her to such insanities. On the other hand, she would have greatly enjoyed just dangling her feet over the ledge and feeling the breeze at this altitude. She immediately thought of the 911 calls and the cries of "Jump!" barely reaching her from below that such odd behaviour would undoubtedly provoke.

She swiveled back to her desk and pulled out an old, chewed-up #2 pencil from her desk drawer. Ripping a page from her legal pad, she began to write in long slanted strokes. She poured her emotions onto the page, explaining in great eloquent passages why she could no longer keep her position as Vice President of Human Relations for the world's third largest computer chip manufacturer. Most of it had to do with the fact there were no human relations to be experienced anywhere within said firm. Once the sheet was fully covered in blue ink, she rose, crossed the hallway with the page tightly clenched in her left hand, and gently inserted it into the shredder in the copy room. It made a satisfying crunch as it annihilated her seventy-second resignation letter. She shut the lights, closed her office door, locked it to ensure the safety of the crucial human relations secrets of the third largest computer chip manufacturer, and headed for home, where at least, a small gray cat awaited and cared.

(434)