#severance au

CHAPTER ONE: I AM SOME

You step in the elevator to leave, feeling the upward pull and blink - suddenly it’s a new day. You’re in different clothes and the elevator is going down.

Every day starts like this. The end and the beginning are blurred together. You step into the lift and halfway up you inhale, hairline fracture splitting open and engulfing you - and you are coming back down again. Time has passed and you haven’t lived it.

You live in this office, aware that there is a version of you that lives upstairs, outside, in the beyond. You don’t know this other version of yourself, you don’t know what happens in all those hours in between your existence. There is only Here and the Work that you do.

The doors part and you step into the pristine white hallway, smooth green carpet. Muscle memory drags you forward, making the turns until you reach the office space that you live in.

Four cubicles sit in the middle, one of your coworkers already sat, tapping away at his keyboard. You murmur a good morning and get one in return before you sit down, switching your monitor on.

You don’t know what the codes mean that you look at everyday, but you know how to sort them the same way that you know how to walk and talk and breathe. There isn’t anything for you to work on beyond this, although you haven’t been here that long. You kept track of the days in the beginning, little lines on your sticky pad before you stopped. One of your colleagues has been here for years and your little lines don’t change your fate.

The rest of you coworkers filter in and you settle in to work, the room filled with the gentle sounds of keyboard clicking and the roll of the mouse. Coded words are in front of you and you didn’t know what they meant when you first started, and you don’t know now, but you’re able to sort them somehow. Your mind goes soft and malleable and the numbers feel different until you can categorise them. Not as good as your colleagues can, but not bad at all. The Work is Important, and you understand it when you look at your screen, even if you start to forget when you look away.

Every day is like this. Every day, one of your coworkers will get up for some coffee and tut over the jug. All of the cups are the same, and you will always choose the one with the chip on the handle. Marked, just for you.

Every day is the same. The cool fabric of your silk blouse against the line of your spine, smooth as it rasps against your skin. You don’t move more than you need to, always so still if it weren’t for the movement of your hands. A fluttering butterfly over your keyboard.

Then, almost every afternoon before lunch, the same -

-

“Can I speak to you?” Mr Price asks, his hands on his hips. You hesitate, immobile for a second and his eyes tighten.

“Yes, of course,” you rush to say, switching off your monitor and standing. No one looks at you as you follow Mr Price out of the room, your heels clicking on the floor.

White walls give way to more white walls as you walk along. Each turn is identical but familiar, dread building as you get closer and closer to that sudden black door at the end.

Mr Price is silent, and you watch the line of his back beneath his white shirt. There will be a blazer in his office, but you’ve never seen him wearing it.

There’s a lot that you don’t know about Mr Price. He’s your manager, and you know that when he rolls up his sleeves, you’ll see coarse hair that runs down his forearms. You know how he clears his throat when he’s impatient and how to distinguish between his polite smile and his annoyed smile when he speaks to your coworkers.

At least you know what your colleagues like and dislike. You know what disappoints Mr Price, but you don’t know what would make him pleased.

He is different from you and your coworkers in some untouchable way. You feel like a trapped bug in a glass, but he’s the one who made you and the glass and the countertop beneath you. He feels like something more than you are, which may be why you make yourself follow him so neatly. Feet echoing his steps, in unison.

He opens the door to his office and you filter in after him, hand trembling around the door handle as you close it.

He sits behind his desk, and blinks up at you, hovering near the door. That trapped bug again, smacking itself against the glass over and over again - fruitless escape. You understand the feeling even though you’ve never seen a bug and don’t know how you know what that is.

“I have some files that I need to sort through this morning, if you’d be able to help me out?” he tells you. You can only see the back of his monitor, the gap in hard plastic, the faint glow of the heart of a machine. It flickers, disappears and is back again.

“Of course, sir,” you nod, eager to please. You step toward the filing cabinet, so close to the door. Solace in increments, counted in the steps it would take you to leave.

“It’s the digital files,” his voice drawls behind you and you pause. Pivot. Feet drag against the carpet but you know better than to take too long to turn around and approach him.

The door may as well be a mile away. You hover next to his desk and blink, eyelashes stuck and peeled apart as you look at his computer. The empty home screens looks back at you, pixels wavering before solidifying. No files open.

He reaches up, slides a hand around the curve of your hip. His hand is a hot brand, you can hear the rasp of his palm against the cotton of your skirt. You are clay, formed into a shape in his hands, cold until you are warmed.

You stare at his computer, the screen blank. You remember you had reached for the mouse once and he’d clucked his tongue, sharp and annoyed. Displeasure is like a ripple effect, dragging you under.

You know better now.

You take a steadying breath and lower yourself on your knees. Squeeze in between his spread thighs and his desk.

You’ve never seen a body of water, but you know how to drown.

-

Your coworkers are no solace, whenever Mr Price comes for you. Their heads are lowered in supplication when he requests you in his office. You are the sacrifice for peace in the workplace.

You don’t blame them. You make it so easy for everyone. You stand and leave at Mr Price’s request and then you return and go out of your way to make sure that no one thinks that you have any resentment for their inaction.

You wonder how long you will be here. You used to step into the lift and dream of the nothingness in that split second where you become someone else. But every morning you are alive again, always awake. One of your colleagues fell asleep by accident at his desk and is reprimanded, but you cannot get the idea out of your head.

You crave the unconsciousness, the thought of being away from here and experiencing something like a dream is like a fever that takes hold of you.

You don’t say anything about it. Not that you’re expressly forbidden from discussing how you wish you weren’t here, but it’s cruel. The only thing that you always know is that you are down here, and the dream of being upstairs is like a hangnail that you keep pulling on until it rips and exposes your ugly desire for a life that you used to live but have forgotten.

-

There’s one day that Mr Price doesn’t call on you at all. The clock ticks closer and closer to 5 and you watch the door behind you, nervous. Like you’ve done something wrong.

You finally get up to leave and he still doesn’t show. You stand in the hallway, steps hesitant. Trail all the way to the elevator and wait, like he’ll jump out. The test failed, you know that you should’ve waited. You should’ve volunteered to go through to his office, just as you’ve been trained.

You take a step towards the elevator. Nothing.

You step inside and press the button to go up, your hand shaking. The doors close in slow motion, but no one jumps out, no one confronts you.

You exhale, feel the familiar pull as your head gets rocked back and you know you’re gone but you never left and the elevator is coming back down. A new day, a new set of clothes.

You inhale, and the lift ricochets to a stop. The doors part and Mr Price is standing there.

There’s a strained line between his brows, although his tone is even when he greets you good morning. He turns and you follow without him asking you to, the line of his shoulder lessening but only just.

Straight line and then a right - you reach his office and he steps inside, and you follow, closing the door behind you.

He clearly doesn’t have time for you to linger by his door because he’s still standing when you turn around and you jump before you catch yourself.

He blinks at you and you imagine this must be what wild animals look like - men in suits but with sharp teeth and the sound of his spit as his mouth parts. “Go to the desk and pull your skirt up,” he tells you, voice strained.

Your hands shake and you chance a glance at the door, see his hand on the handle. The sight of his knuckles piercing through his skin as his grip tightens under your gaze. Squeak of metal and you turn.

Your knees knock but you’re more afraid of what will happen if you don’t hurry. You’d worn trousers when you first started working here, you remember. Not for months though, now it’s always skirts and dresses, dainty heels that pinch your feet.

Hemlines are easy to pull up, so you do and place your hands flat on his desk.

Mr Price comes around and you jump when he touches you, his hand rough as it curves around your hip and the flesh of your backside. Usually he sits for a moment, watches you undress. This time he doesn’t pull his hand away, though the other is working his belt, you can help the clink of the metal.

There is something impatient in the press of his fingers, harsh as they slide down towards your belly.

Nothing built up about the glide of his cock through your folds, heat against your back as he leans over to grab the lube off of the corner of his desk.

You can hear the click of the bottle cap, then the wet schlicking sound as he wraps it around his cock. The press of the head against you, the heat of the back of his palm as he twists it before bringing it back down.

He’s never actually had sex with you. It feels like a line that you wobble on, an invisible barrier. The head of cock brushes your clit and you feel your thighs tense as he groans, his hand pulled up to catch on your hole before he pulls back again.

There’s a heat in your belly, tense and cross, made worse by the lewd sound of him beating himself off with you on display like this. You’re ashamed but you also want him to grind against you for longer than a few beats, anything to kindle enough heat that you could get off on it.

Later, approaching the elevator, you’ll be irritated by the injustice in it. How he’s allowed to get off while you sit, bent over and wet and nothing being done about it.

In the moment, your face hot, you listen to him groan and then feel him come, wet strips on your cunt and over your thighs.

He presses against your hole again, just enough that you can feel it gather there. A pretty sight if his appreciative sigh is any indication when he pulls back.

You wait, trembling as he stands behind you, his hands on your backside, framing his masterpiece. His hands are cool, you’re burning up. The memory of a memory of lying down when you’re ill before it’s gone and you’re left on your own again, shaking as you still support your weight on your legs.

Mr Price whistles and you flinch, making him chuckle as he pats your arse fondly. “You can head back to your desk now,” he tells you, offering you a tissue. There’s a sardonic look in his eye when you snatch it from his grasp and turn to walk away, trying to find some level of dignity.

You wipe your thighs down in the bathroom, shivering as you pat around your cunt.

You could get yourself off, quick and efficient, here where there are no eyes on you. It feels like giving something up so you come out of the stall and scrub your hands in the sink instead.

Back at your desk for the rest of the day, irritable and on edge. There is a bright bulb in your computer and it blinks at you, knowing everything about you, even things that you don’t know yourself.

In the lift, a second before you feel the pressure built and crack your skull in half, you wonder why Mr Price won’t just fuck you the way he seems to want to.

Then you’re cracked back into place, the elevator dragging you down. You wince as you step out of the lift, an ache between your legs that embarrasses you.

You sit on a cushion all day and Mr Price doesn’t summon you into his office again, although you can feel his attention on you as he checks in with another one of your colleagues.

There are incomprehensible numbers on a screen but you feel his eyes on the side of your head and they click into place. The roll of your mouse beneath your palm, numbers feeding into themselves like a snake that you’ve never seen.

He doesn’t call you into his office that day and you get more work done than ever even as a headache throbs in your temple. Rhythmic, like the ticking of the clock on your wall.

-

Today, you feel tired. Your eyes itch as soon as you step out of the lift. You must not have slept well last night and you grit your teeth at the spike of annoyance that you feel as you must deal with the consequences of that.

The bright overhead lighting digs into your retinas until they burn. You yawn enough to make your eyes water, coding in front of you blurring and becoming nonsensical. You blink, and imagine that you have slept before you open them again. An addictive thought that makes you you blink more than usual just to chase the feeling.

One of your coworkers leaves a mug of coffee on your desk for you, and then pats you on the shoulder when you almost cry when you thank them.

You’re sitting in the breakroom, laughing at something someone has said when Mr Price arrives and you’re beckoned away.

The room goes silent, and you leave your mug of coffee to get cold as you follow him out of the room.

“How are you today?” Mr Price asks in the hallway, walking beside you for once. It startles you, your hands flitting nervously before you settle them down. His head is tilted down toward you, eyes still as he waits.

“Fine, sir,” you say, wilting when he raises an eyebrow. You turn your head back to your shoes, the slow steps as they sink into the thin carpet. “A little tired, but nothing that some caffeine won’t help.” A weak laugh that he only hums in return at.

He steps into his office and you close the door behind you. He settles into his chair, his arm against his desk and he rests his temple against his fist. You feel more watched by him than when anyone else looks at you, as if he was seeing more than anyone else does. Standing, fully clothed, his gaze alone strips you naked and vulnerable.

You shuffle uncertainly and you see his pupil flex. “Do you have somewhere to be?” he asks, lifting his head to fold his arms and regard you straight on.

“No, sir - unless you mean me to be,” you reply, all in one breath. You hate yourself for being so appeasing but you see the breath that gusts out of him, his eyes briefly closing. A horrible thrill in you at the sight - you are good at pleasing him even as it makes you sick. Perhaps because it makes you feel sick - you’ve never felt a desire that hasn’t also made you feel warped and distorted.

He opens them again, and you’re caught in his line of sight again. “Come here,” he says and you step toward him, lightly stepping around his desk.

He swivels his chair, his legs spread as he looks up at you. There’s a bulge between his legs, caught in the fine line of his trousers, but you don’t look down at it. He sits up and grasps your hips, tugging you forward to stand between his thighs. Even sitting, he feels so much bigger than you, ridiculously broad in his leather chair.

Your hands catch yourself on his shoulders before you pull them back with a quick apology. He doesn’t acknowledge it, staring at his hands as he rounds the curve of your hips. You can hear the rustle of fabric as he smoothes his hands up from your hips, to your waist and up to the curve of your breasts.

He slides them back down, looking up at you. “Take your shirt off,” he tells you, and your hands are instinctive, immediately coming up to unbutton your blouse and tug it off of your shoulders.

You place it on his desk and he groans at the sight of your bra. You look down and you can see it, a dark green to match your shirt, lacy with a jewel in the middle.

He slides his hands back up, rough against your bare skin and you shiver. He cups your tits in his hands. A terrible image - your delicate bra and his hairy hand, and the mean way that he squeezes until you squeak.

He tugs one of the cups down so he can swirl his thumb around your nipple. You squeeze your thighs together, hands flexing as you resist the urge to catch his wrist.

“You’re killing me,” he murmurs, and you’re not certain that he’s speaking to you. You tremble, uncertain if you should say anything.

He leans forward and sucks your nipple into his mouth and you squeak, clenching your fists hard to prevent any further sound. The warm circle of his mouth, the heat of his tongue. You think of your own mouth, soft and wet when he requests it. This is hard, the bristles of his beard scratching your breast and leaving you feeling prickled and raised.

He pulls back and thumbs over where he has left your nipple wet in the cold air. You stay quiet, even when he gives you a parting pinch that makes you exhale sharply. “That will be all,” he says, leaning back in his seat.

You fix your bra and pull your shirt back in and leave, hot in the face and humiliated.

You force yourself to focus for the rest of the day, even though you can feel his attention on you, as physical as a hand around the back of your neck. You turn around to check but there are only white walls and green carpet, clean cut and separate.

-

You don’t know how Mr Price feels about you. You suspect that he must hate you, his face fierce at times when he’s above you.

Then there are times like now, with your hands wrapped gently in gauze with his hands, his head lowered as he tightens the end and tucks it away.

There are medics on this floor, you remember when someone twisted their ankle and they appeared. As if they had been pulled out of the wall, uniform given flesh, sprung into action.

When you cut your hand on the edge of the printer - a loose piece of plastic that had jutted out of the side and sharpened into a point - no one had been allowed to make the call for a medic.

Mr Price brought you to his office, and you sat in the chairs across from his desk. He sat on one himself, something that you’ve never seen before. He’s still bigger than you, but less formidable than he is behind his desk.

“I don’t need to bother you, I can get a medic,” you say now, and quieten down when he turns his hot gaze to you.

Satisfied that you’re silent again, he lowers his head back down to your hand. “You should be more careful,” he tells you, voice low with an order. You swallow and nod. He doesn’t smile, his face still severe as he looks back down at your hand.

He smooths his fingers over the bandage, making sure it’s firm and won’t slip. You watch the side of his face. The harsh line of his nose, the bristle of his moustache, the soft sweep of his eyelashes - perhaps the only soft thing about him.

You’re not allowed to touch him as he hasn’t requested you to, so you reach up and smooth a finger over your own eyelashes. They’re coated in mascara, but they’re just as delicate.

“Be more careful, otherwise I’ll write you up for recklessness,” he tells you, pulling his hand back and taking the warmth with him.

“Yes, sir,” you murmur and he regards you for a moment, dark eyes squinting before he dismisses you with a nod.

You stand up and walk back to your office on shaky legs.

A couple of your coworkers fuss over you before you reassure them and you all sit back down and get back to work.

There’s mascara staining your fingers, but you rub your fingers together and rub it away. Thinned out until it’s gone, like it never happened.

-

The next day, the bandage is gone. The only proof of the incident is an angry red line across the side of your palm.

Mr Price has you come into his office and he inspects the cut himself. It’s not even sore anymore, but he makes you tuck your hands behind your back while you sit under his desk. Your wrists flex when he slides his cock into your mouth, but you keep still and let him slide all the way back into your throat.

He cups his hand around the back of your head so you don’t pull back and catch it against his desk. But mostly so he can push you down further, eyes watery when he asks you to look up at him.

He comes with a mean throb, but he’s kind enough to let you catch your breath with your head leaning against his thigh, his prick against your cheek, wet with spit.

Your hands are numb when you stand up, but you keep them curled into your chest, hidden from sight. There’s no wound for him to poke and prod at, but you feel the harsh line of it anyway, worse now than when you first stepped into his office.

His eyes glint with knowing but he blinks and they’re flat again before he dismisses you.

You turn and leave, head to the bathroom and stare at yourself in the mirror. You look placid, polite. You wonder if you’ve ever been comforted when you cry in your other life. You want to smash the mirror up and carve words into your skin. Something crude, unlike you, if you know who you are.

You can imagine it, the same bleeding cut that you already have, but again and again until it spells out a message for yourself. GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.

Your fingers twitch with the itch to write it, your skin is so smooth and perfect. You could rip it open, expose the red rot beneath it.

You smile instead and you look like someone else - insipid, sweet, ditzy.

You go back to your desk and your nails are sharp as they click on the keyboard. No one says anything but no one meets your eye either. Your reflection in the rounded computer screen, half covered in code. Your eyes are red and your lips are stretched, teeth wet and sharp. Someone new.

-

You step into the elevator only to step out of it. There’s something in your pocket but you don’t check, because there has never been anything in your pocket.

Mr Price greets you at the doors when they open and you make yourself smile at him.

You walk along behind him, the straight line and then the turn into his office.