Page 42 of Physical Therapy

Appointment Rescheduled

Not even a fucking call. My gaze roams over the desk I’ve made my home the past four years, at the bullshit accolades on my wall, and the bland fucking carpet and paint that makes this shithole feel every part the tasteless brown shoebox it is.

Even the goddamn second-hand orange chair that Rogers sat on a mere moment ago now pisses me off; my frugal attempt at making this burrow something else than just one more like the other six down this side of the building.

Fuck this shit.

What the fuck do I hope to get out of this job? Why the hell am I here when I can’t stand all the flimsy flakes I work with?

A sardonic smile paints my face as I navigate to the reset command on my laptop. Anticipation fires in my fingertips, the thrill of my ultimate fuck you too much to contain. Like the unhinged asshole I am, a laugh falls from my twisted lips as I smack the trackpad and wipe every damn thing I had saved from the hard drive.

A quick email on my phone to HR later, and four days from now I should see a healthy final pay in my account.

Heads turn as I walk through the bullpen to the lifts, jacket looped over one arm, top two shirt buttons undone, and tie in the trashcan of what was my office. Rogers stands to say something, yet I halt him with a raised palm. I can’t stop the grin from splitting my face as I turn in the lift and take in each and every stunned face as the doors close.

I should have done this years ago.

I’ve either woken the fuck up or officially snapped and gone crazy. Either way, I intend to have some long overdue fun. Being the asshole around town doesn’t bring me the pleasure it once did.

But first, I’ve got some redecorating to do.

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