"I quit!" she said triumphantly, chucking a dvd case at her manager. She then stormed out of the building, smirk and all, and walked over to Starbucks to celebrate.
Of course, in actuality, she did none of these things. Instead, she pursed her lips as the manager reminded her once again that she had no choice but to sell. "It's corporate's call," he repeated. "None of us have a choice."
"I know," she muttered, tears welling up in her eyes. It wasn't the selling -- really, she was good at it, and enjoyed their current promotion. It was everything else in her life: The constant fear of not getting enough money to cover rent, her too-good-to-be-true relationship falling apart, being forced to stop the only medication that worked for her because of a tiny rash. It was the way she still had no chance of promotion after two years of working here, the phonecalls she still had to make, the transferring of funds so she could buy new interview clothes that actually fit.
Then there were the uncontrollable breakdowns, like the one she was fighting now. They seemed to happen more and more recently, several at work. They scared her. All of a sudden, tomorrow looked like an impossibility and every meal seemed like her last. She couldn't go back to the psych ward, though. While the schedules and food there would do her good, she didn't want to do that to her parents or her lover yet again. Besides, last time he had cheated on her.
"I need to go home. Either you can let me go, or I can quit. Either way, the end result is the same: I'm leaving." Her voice shook slightly as she said it, but not from fear. She was just fighting back the hysteria that threatened to come out in a scream.
"We don't want you to quit. Call around, see if someone can cover you." She did, and someone could. Defeated by her own illness, she drove home and cried.
Of course, in actuality, she did none of these things. Instead, she pursed her lips as the manager reminded her once again that she had no choice but to sell. "It's corporate's call," he repeated. "None of us have a choice."
"I know," she muttered, tears welling up in her eyes. It wasn't the selling -- really, she was good at it, and enjoyed their current promotion. It was everything else in her life: The constant fear of not getting enough money to cover rent, her too-good-to-be-true relationship falling apart, being forced to stop the only medication that worked for her because of a tiny rash. It was the way she still had no chance of promotion after two years of working here, the phonecalls she still had to make, the transferring of funds so she could buy new interview clothes that actually fit.
Then there were the uncontrollable breakdowns, like the one she was fighting now. They seemed to happen more and more recently, several at work. They scared her. All of a sudden, tomorrow looked like an impossibility and every meal seemed like her last. She couldn't go back to the psych ward, though. While the schedules and food there would do her good, she didn't want to do that to her parents or her lover yet again. Besides, last time he had cheated on her.
"I need to go home. Either you can let me go, or I can quit. Either way, the end result is the same: I'm leaving." Her voice shook slightly as she said it, but not from fear. She was just fighting back the hysteria that threatened to come out in a scream.
"We don't want you to quit. Call around, see if someone can cover you." She did, and someone could. Defeated by her own illness, she drove home and cried.
