Jammed

The printer began to whir and growl as the paper jammed—again. 

Watch him grab the machine forcibly, jerking it around roughly until it bites his hand off.

Gnarly scene. His hand, up to where his wrist once met his forearm, is gnawed away. Delicate bones that line his hand go crack and crunch, sending a rapid succession of snap, crackle, and pops booming through the empty office. Pain turns him into a contortionist—his afflicted arm elongates, he plants his feet firmly and bends back at the knees before his upper body twists at the waist and jerks backward. His eyes bulge and go white. He throws his head back. A bloodcurdling scream rises from his diaphragm and bubbles out of his mouth. 

Plush office floors begin to absorb the damage. Eventually, he tears what’s left of his arm out of the printer’s mouth.

Fascination with the scene is unfamiliar to you. The subsequent wave of happiness that washes your face doesn’t make sense either. Still, smirk. Joy flickers through your eyes. He’s never been damaged goods, not like you.

Revel in the fact that he is being punished.

No.

Quip, “If only it were real and not another asinine fantasy,” as you perch against the concrete ledge of the office building, cigarette hanging out of your mouth. They’re never punished. You know that.

Consider a myriad of solutions to your seemingly unending stream of problems. Quit. Don’t come in. Don’t look at him. Don’t watch them toast his achievements: securing a major client, winning bigger cases than you, his sudden promotion to partner. Don’t accept that he’s your boss now. Your success and your livelihood are in his hands. 

You’re still in his hands. 

No.

Don’t go back home, don’t succumb to poverty. Keep your mouth shut. Or walk away when all you’ve ever wanted is the life this job has provided for you.

What a fucking pill to swallow.

Swallow that fucking pill? 

Maybe.

No.

Drag your hand along the ledge. Move forward, one foot in front of the other. 

Close your eyes. Accommodate long pull from cowboy killer. The smoke fills the gap in your spirit. You can’t make sense of the fantasies, but they are less daunting and more satisfying than confronting him. 

Let the smoke go. Open your eyes.

Feel hollow and raw again.

No.

Watch the machine devour him as he has devoured you.

No.

Squeeze eyes, don’t fight, give under the weight of the demons, be dragged into the void. See the printer. Tears run down your face. Steel yourself. See yourself. 

No.

Feel like nothing. Feel … nothing. 

No. 

Open your eyes.

No.

Then close 'em.

No.

Open.

No.

Close.

No.

Open.

No.

Accept your fall.