The Journal©
Written by: Sprawl
Copyrighted on 5/25/2011
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The day started just as it had every day the past few weeks. The only difference was that this was Friday and that long, lonely weekend was looming ahead. A short, brooding two days of dates with a week's worth of recorded DVR shows and frozen TV dinners. Perhaps, just perhaps, to spice things up, this weekend might be the perfect chance to sample the new Chinese take-out place next door, on her way home.
The thought of the same peanut butter and jelly sandwich all week in a small brown bag in her purse, served only to reignite the idea of trying one of those recipes from her growing, yet untouched library of cookbooks. A quick glance at her wrist watch only made the morning feel longer. Still another 43 minutes and 22 seconds before lunch time, and yet, as a the only temporary worker in the entire office, she was the usually the last one to find a lunch date. Not that it mattered since her current, two-week assignment was almost over and she tried quite successfully to socially outcast herself. When it came to filing papers, correlating mail and delivering reports from department to department, she was more than capable. She had caught the eye of a few men in the office, some married, some single, yet all were old enough to be her father. There were times that she would get lost and day dream about the prospect of an older man, yet she always came to the conclusion that she would never marry someone twice her age, so why waste time dating?
She was always calculated, yet often finding herself incapable of being articulate around men her age. Having been accepted to college, this two-week assignment was simply to help her financially with moving into the dorms. She was elated to finally get a fresh start, a new slate and far away enough from home to be independent. However, independence had never been an issue: her mom is an overnight nurse, and her father spent more time with his secretary than his golf clubs.
Another glance at her watch proved just how slow her last day really was. She sat up in her seat, subtly adjusting her blouse into her suit pants. She double checked to make sure she wasn't creasing her suit jacket which she had draped over her chair before sitting down.
Moments crawled by and she decided to check her inbox. No new messages and all 47 had been taken care of and/or answered. Having only been here for less than two weeks, she was surprised to find nearly 40 tagged messages in her spam box. Aside from the usual male genital enhancement ads (which obviously did not apply) and magic facial creams to turn her girl next door smile into a supermodel smile, she found little to be out of the ordinary for a spam folder. She grinned slightly, thinking to herself how much money these un-targeted advertisements cost some random company and highlighted each message to be deleted. Only one caught her eye: it was titled "No Subject" and sent by someone who she did not recognize. She only recognized the company domain name. A flush of emotion overcame her, as she tried to recall if she had met anyone who might fit the bill. Confused, she opened the letter.
It was just your standard welcome letter. There was an untitled .pdf attachment at the bottom of the page, automatically scanned and free of viruses, which, she surmised, was the reason it got flagged as spam. She glanced around her cubicle, then stood up to find the closest office worker who was had not taken a 3-day weekend or an early lunch, to be lost in his own world feverishly copying and collating a steadily, growing stack of reports.
Feeling a sufficient level of privacy, she sat down to open the .pdf file. As the file downloaded, she felt a wave of anxiety course through her veins, adequately and embarrassingly filling her cheeks. She felt the warm air around her face, fueled by her crimson cheeks and the tingling sensation at the top of her ears. She was reminded of thoughts of Christmas. As soon as the file opened, she felt her lower jaw drop and her lungs start to burn with carbon-dioxide. She grabbed her gaping mouth with both hands and accidentally let out a quiet shriek as her subconscious tried desperately to breathe again.
On the monitor, the "untitled" .pdf file proved to be the most embarrassing thing she had ever seen: a picture of her unlocked, personal journal on what seemed to be one of the cafeteria benches. She quickly darted her left hand into her purse, desperately looking for it. She stood up and emptied everything onto her desk. Feverishly, she scoured its contents: makeup kit, lipstick, mirror, car keys, house keys, wallet, and her brown bagged lunch. She placed her right hand on her forehead, attempting to calm her breathing while her left emptied the sandwich onto the table. She took the paper bag and placed it over her mouth to control her hyperventilating. Her worry was that this wasn't her "normal" journal. In fact, this journal was where she would spend her lonely nights, romance novels and depraved thoughts. She felt that it was simply a phase, and that when she was over it, she would destroy the journal but for the time being, she needed an outlet for her thoughts of submission, bondage, and other socially unaccepted fantasies. In fact, her worries were not all too unfounded; her sharing of some of her thoughts with her high school best friends left her not only without a friend, but replaced them with endless ridicule and mockery.
She calmed herself enough by lunch time and made her way, without detours, distractions or delays to the cafeteria. She looked on tables and under the chairs and benches but found nothing. Holding back tears, she went to the restroom to sit in solitude. She was no longer hungry for food, or thirsty for water; her only goal in that moment was to find her journal. Ten minutes pass and she finally regained her composure. She realized that her tenure here would be over in a matter of hours and that all that ridicule would remain here when she left for college.
She unlatched the stall, and stepped toward the sink. She took a moment to compose herself, while taking a tissue to dab her cheeks dry. Satisfied with her appearance, she returned to her work station exactly thirty minutes from when she left.
Her heart skipped a beat and felt the wind, in a moment's time, leave her lungs and disappear into thin air. The journal had returned, amidst the emptied contents of her purse. Almost instinctively, she glanced around the office to see most people working, minding their own business after having returned from lunch. She reached for her journal and after flipping through the first few pages, she wished she had never laid eyes on it again: all the pages with any writing had been torn out and replaced with a single, half-folded piece of white paper.
A single printed message were the only remnants of her darkest desires. "You know you have been a naughty girl, harboring such thoughts. Know that these pages will never see the light of day, and will be returned as soon as you comply with the following steps enclosed. However, each step must be followed in its entirety…" a single tear rolled down her cheek as she continued to read "…but do not despair. The tasks are simple and straight forward. They are only meant to show you a path of which you deny yourself from traversing."
