I turned up yesterday. Shipped in. They asked me ‘Should you be here?’. I had a hacking cough, or so I’m told. I thought I sounded fine. I’ve been better, I’ve been worse, for sure.
I typed and droned and danced and hurled my body from here to bloody there. A woman called Elaine briefly saved my life when the walls were caving in, and I helped to drag a body from the stairs when it was blocking the handyman’s route in.
If you could have seen the view from the window, it was savage. I looked down into the square where they were burning papers, books, and evidence of everything they’d done.
The shells were very loud, but a boy’s got to earn a living somehow. A little after 3pm the windows shattered and a soldier staggered in and looked me in the eye and moaned ‘it’s over!’ as he sank down by the printer.
He looked young. He had a cut across his face that made him look somehow asymmetrical. I like to think that I’d have died looking better.
This morning, by about eleven, only half a dozen office workers stayed, shredding, loading stuff into a truck to go somewhere with fewer high explosive shells raining down from the fucking sky.
I’m done, son. Put my feet up and have an iced bun, I make sure to take a lunch because I don’t get paid for more than seven hours. Although, to be fair, we might be overrun before five o’clock comes.