Page 13 of Hate Notes

Oh, I also bought the screwdriver on my company card.

Hatefully yours,

A former employee"

"Wow," Ember said. "Too cheap to buy people new chairs, but you'll pay thousands so you don't have to hear these notes? That's kind of sad, isn't it?"

I jammed the elevator button, hoping it would come quickly today. Like most of these notes, the employee sending it was delusional. If they needed a new chair, I would have certainly seen to it. They probably didn’t send their complaint through the proper channels and it never reached me.

"We're not making small talk," I said.

"No? You prefer big talk?"

"I prefer no talk."

"That's fine. You can just use your listening ears, then." Ember lifted another note.

"Mr. Foster,

“I hate working here. I hate you. I hate the tie you wear every second Thursday of the month. It looks like mustard, and I like to pretend it's a big, stupid mustard stain you got on yourself from eating hotdogs during your lunch break like a weirdo. You like that? Hm? You like knowing I'm thinking that? Bet you don't. GOOD. The only thing that gets me out of bed in the mornings is knowing that humans are mortal. So if you're actually a human and not a robot with no soul, one day, you'll die. That brings me happiness.

“Sincerely, one angry human being"

"Okay," Ember said. "That one got kind of dark. What the hell do you do to people, anyway?"

"I require them to work hard every day, and I don't coddle them. Some people can't handle that."

The elevator finally dinged, and the doors slid open. I stepped inside and jammed the close door button, but Ember slipped in beside me.

The woman smelled like lavender soap. She positioned herself in front of me as if planning to keep me from leaving the elevator when I reached my floor. I'd like to see all five foot nothing of her try. I turned my head to the side, trying to pretend she didn't exist.

"So you really wear the same tie every second Thursday of the month? That's... a little strange, isn't it? Do you have OCD or something? Or are you just one of those people who says you have OCD, but you actually prefer things to be neat or have one little quirk that's vaguely reminiscent of OCD but totally not actual, clinically defined OCD."

I stared at her. "Is there something wrong with you?"

"Nope," she said cheerily. "But it's okay. We can work on this whole small talk, big talk thing. We'll get there with time."

"We're not going to get anywhere," I said, voice cold.

She glanced at the elevator number, which was steadily increasing. "I'd say we're going up. You and me, Mr. Foster. We're on the way up. Together," she whispered dramatically.

Nobody talked to me like this. They were too scared to fuck with me. Something had to be wrong with Ember. Was her ability to feel fear broken? How the hell did she survive? Did she also walk in front of moving cars, pet lions, and swim with sharks?

"We're not going to have time to work on anything," I clarified. "Because today or tomorrow, I'll name a price, and you'll take it. Because you're apparently desperate enough to take thisridiculous job instead of contributing to society. Because I have something you want, and you'll happily take it once I offer you enough."

Something flickered in Ember's eyes. Defiance? Anger? Excitement? "Okay," she said sweetly.

"Okay?" I asked.

"What's the point in arguing with you, Mr. Foster? Why don't we just let things happen and see if they play out how you think they will? It sounds fun."

I felt my nostrils flaring and noticed her eyes focus on them. I tried to will them to stop it, along with the tension I felt between my eyebrows.

Ember's full lips twitched at the corners. "This is a long elevator ride, isn't it? Long and tense... Just how I like it."

Was this woman seriously...

The door dinged.

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