Arriving home late that evening, I storm past my family’s greetings, through the kitchen, and straight into my home office. Ten, nine, eight… Deep breath… Seven, six…Holy fuck, keep it together you useless sack of shit. 17 years wasted, only to lose the promotion to a filthy toddler. Memory is a tricky mistress, filling you up and absorbing all you have left until you’re ready to explode.
Brayden’s god damned Brazilian Tarantula stares back at me with its bulbous abdomen propping himself and mocking me. Eight hundred dollars for me to come home every night to an escaped monster filing my paperwork. I wasn’t even consulted. I’m never fucking consulted. Not by Linda, certainly not by my boss.
If I'm trapped, you’re trapped. This cage of a whisky glass should prove nicer than the suburban hellhole I’ve dug for myself. I slam the glass upside down atop the venomous spider, and make my way around the large mahogany desk. I pretend to understand, but twelve thousand dollars on a dress she hasn’t worn!?
“For fuck sakes!” I shout and slam my fists into the table. The temporary jail shimmies towards the edge.
“Two hundred grand on a car she doesn’t drive!” SLAM. The glass wobbles closer.
The spider watches as the large man destroys his office, every object personally offending him. All the while paying no attention to the danger creeping along the edge of his desk.
I'm all but dead, as my panic begins to ease and reality comes into view. I slump my dead weight into my overpriced chair, and the impact vibrates the glass to freedom. Just as the little monster takes his chance, I place my sweaty hand on top and regain control.
We glare at each other. She does make me laugh. The kids are set for life. I’m only forty-five. We both let out a sigh of relief, and I get myself a new whisky glass.