I did not intend to have any difficulties with my supervisor.
“Good morning, doll.”
I hate him. He’s a creep and I can hear him speaking to her, my cubicle neighbor. I hate that I can hear everything that wrongfully exists in the world, and hate that I can envision the congo-line of ants making their way to the complimentary danishes in the break room, as there is a known ant issue in the office. I need just a few, but it’s still too early. It’s best to wait until an appropriate time, like lunch.
“Morning, my angel.”
My body nearly convulses at the sound of his voice being directed at me. I look up and over my cubicle wall, my hunger strangely growing. I want nothing more than to escape.
“My name is Isis.” I retaliate and his eyebrows playfully raise at me. He’s intrigued and embarrassed, maybe. “I told you yesterday.” He chuckles at my response, walking away to breathe down the scalps and breasts of others.
He must perceive me as a “feisty-sapphire,” grouping me into his collection of other women that reside in the crevices of his ill mind. I want to remove the smug look from his face. I need to eat in the break room. Although I am able to ignore his words successfully, I am never able to get over his unpalatable appearance. The manner in which his tie hangs loose and how his button-up shirt is wrinkled irks me. And the rage that is born within burns the calories of everything I’ve inhaled the days before. I become increasingly hungry.
The sound of my blocky keys washes out the overbearing noises of water-cooler banter and other chat from nearby cubicles. Certainly, I can wait just like each day. 12:30 pm is the appropriate time to eat, even if the light overhead is reminiscent of buzzing beetles from Zanzibar, or maybe the round-bodied rhinoceros beetle that can punch its horns into the eyes of the perverted. It is impossible to continue my report, my mouse wanders to another tab yet again.
I scratch the side of my neck between bouts of typing just to ease the hunger-itching. My eyes shift to the clock widget in the far right corner of my computer screen: 11:43 AM. I scratch my thigh with my nails, my neck has become slightly sore from touching it too much. I can hear the congo-line of ants approaching the danishes. I can’t have my meal ruined; cross-contaminated food is the worst thing next to my supervisor.
Pushing myself out from my desk, I stand up and begin making my way toward the breakroom. I keep my eyes on the ground to avoid any wandering pairs. At last, I make it past the threshold. The blinds are covering the glass windows, just as I like them. I can’t be seen in my state of famine.
“Good, good,” I quietly mumble to myself. It appears that the ants have not touched the danishes. I turn my head to look around and check if the break room is empty. It is a personal rule, or maybe, a ritual, to not eat around any of my coworkers; it would be rude.
I bend down to the counter, holding the pink-colored box of pastries. Before I can appreciate the sight, I begin digging in. My tinted lips press onto the cool surface and begin slurping aggressively. Claw clip styles keep my curly hair from spilling into meals; it is etiquette. Each black ant, one by one, erase into my cavern. I chew a mouthful of them and slurp each and every last one until they all disappear. I feel bad of course, smacking my lips like an animal. I would have wiped down the counter, but then I would have sprayed some of the ants with cleaning solution and that terribly ruins a meal.
“Is your salary not enough for you to eat breakfast at home?” My supervisor chuckles, his voice clearly coming from behind me. Familiar chills rise up and down my spine from my position: face down on the counter and eating ants. He continues, “I can see if you can get a raise, but you would have to prove it, you know?” Of course, he is too perverted to realize I had just finished eating ants.
I have no reply, and I have swallowed all of the ants whole. My shoulders twitch and convulse violently; I am still hungry. It seems that I have miscalculated the number of ants that would be in the break room, and it seems that my supervisor’s comment elicited a violent response from me. As I said, it is a rule to not eat around any of my coworkers, as it is rude.
Within seconds, I turn around and hold my supervisor by the shoulders, my nails sinking into his cheap blazer that covers his un-ironed shirt. I latch onto the side of his face and bite down viciously. I thought I could stop after one bite, but I cannot refrain. His filthy self is enough, it is exactly like a larva revealing itself from under a muddy rock. I am a rhinoceros beetle in combat, unstoppable– and oh, I gnaw his flesh off relentlessly, he cannot even release a scream.
His blood spills violently down my chin as I bite the rest of his face off. Initially starting from the jaw, I successfully ripped apart each and every muscle that held his face together. From the peeling of peach-fuzz skin to the revealing of over-ripe and rotting fruit, his face was gone. By the time I finished pushing my canines through his cheekbones, eye sockets, and other miscellaneous human facial anatomy bits, his body had fully collapsed down to my heels.
It’s a different taste from bugs, human flesh that is. I wouldn’t have it again, it’s horrible. Of course, I now understand that eating my supervisor’s face off does not make for a very trustworthy statement. One thing that I will critique about eating humans is that they are not pure, and are very messy. One can feel the wrongdoings within their blood, and I am left covered in it from my chin and down to my blouse.
“Shit, shit, shit!” My rampage and rebellion suddenly end.
I stuff his decapitated body into one of the large cabinets that hold cheap party decorations. He’s heavy, and a limp body makes things much more difficult. Running to the sink in the room, I wash myself down and unbutton my blouse before stuffing it underneath my pencil skirt. My tank top is not stained, luckily.
Eating bugs provides me plenty of protein and forces me to act on my feet, as being caught with a strange meal makes for awkward encounters. I reach for the roll of paper towels and wipe up the spills of blood while simultaneously spraying bleach. I open the cabinet where I stuffed my supervisor’s body and douse him with bleach as well, just to subdue the rich scent of iron and overall stench. I take all of the used paper towels and cleaning bottles, which I stick down into my taut pantyhose.
Surely, there are mistakes in my track. Acting on impulse left me with no choice but to eat him. I repeat this to myself as I leave the break room with my exposed chest and shoulders. For once, there are no strange comments. But my stomach is swollen, bulging with discomfort. I have eaten too much, but eating him alive had to be a good idea, for the greater good of the other women in my department. He didn’t do any work either, everyone’s work can go without micromanaging. He offered nothing but sleazy comments and discomfort– something good was done! I did something good, surely, yet my stomach continues to pain me.
My gait is strange on the walk back to my desk. I’ve never maneuvered around with a wad of bloody paper towels and a singular bleach bottle in my tights. Walking with a blood-soaked shirt stuffed up my skirt did not make the situation any better either. It was as if a cheap menstrual pad meshed with toilet paper was left on for 3 days to expand and hang from behind my ass.
A small squelch is heard as I sit back down at my desk. I’m horribly embarrassed by the turn of events today. Now, I have to leave work early. I’m quick with excuses, however. I email HR that I have an emergency with my mom or some other family member who lives out of state. I soon forget the lie that I typed, my stomach struggling to digest the foreign parts of my supervisor. I pack my shoulder bag with my belongings before standing up again. I make one last awkward walk to the elevator, inching and dragging my heels along the floor.
Certainly, I did not intend to eat my supervisor.
