The Firing Line

For the people who watch Hugh Grant films and dream for a rich, arrogant man to sweep you off your feet, this one is dedicated to you. Copyright © 2020 by Kayla Silvers We are each our own devil, and we make this world our own hell. — Oscar Wilde Chapter One I had been in hell for six years on the sixty-sixth floor of my work building that was ruled under the fist of the devil. My sanity had pretty much disappeared. My enjoyment of attending work was history. If it was even there to begin with. The most primal thing about me was my hatred for my boss. One-fifth of employees stated that the most hated aspect of their job was their boss. I am well aware of the stats. I read a survey one time before filling it out for myself. Two walls of the large office were made from expensive black marble. The door was a dark tainted glass that you could not see through. It made the room feel isolated from the world. The only light source was from the large window that overlooked the bustling streets of Chicago. My computer screen's backdrop was a photo of a scene from Nightmare on Elm Street. The picture showed Freddie Kruger in the back seat of the car getting ready to fling a guy out the window. The picture always made me smile because I could see myself in the backseat of my boss' expensive convertible and waiting for him with a knife. I had gone insane. A few clicks of the mouse and I had entered a bunch of unread emails. All of them were addressed to me but not really for me. I released the mouse from my harsh clutch and sat up straighter in my chair. I took a deep breath and got ready to act like I was not thinking of ways to brutally murder the man I worked for. "Mr Warren?" I called as I kept my eyes glued to the computer screen and not daring to look over at him. There was a rough harsh grunt in reply. Over the years, I had learned to decipher his grunts. I had to pick apart and analyze his silence like a foreign language. I exhaled and continued anyway "The head of finances has been trying to reach out for a meeting. They wish to discuss sales with—" "No." The deep cold voice cut me off. My hand dragged through my hair before I pinched the bridge of my nose. I had to keep my hands preoccupied or I might have picked up the keyboard and slapped it against my head. "Fuck you then." I muttered under my breath while narrowing my eyes at the computer screen. All my rants and insults were itching to be released. Sometimes in my lunch hour, I would find a random supply cupboard and scream. I was embarrassed to admit that I had punched a mop one time and imagined his face as I did so. The hatred I had for my boss was on another level. Mainly because Mr Warren was a whole other breed of arrogance and ruthlessness. I swiveled in my chair and looked around the office. The monochrome room was a prison and an asylum all rolled into one. The main hint of color that could be found was the red highlights in my raven-colored hair. Nine hours a day for six days a week I would spend in a room with him. It had been that way for six whole years and I wondered how I managed to last as long as I had. I often thought the only way to leave the building was either in handcuffs or a body bag. There was no reasonable explanation for why my desk was in the corner of his office. There was no logical reason as to why he always kept me in his sight. The building was sixty-six floors tall and there was a gazillion places I could go. Perhaps it was his idea of torturing me. I asked around on my first day of work and every person told me that none of his previous assistants worked on the same floor as him. Let alone the same room Before me, he had the whole floor to himself. His office was a glorified cage. Every surface was reflective and that meant everywhere I turned he was there. A confession that I was ashamed to admit aloud was that I never really knew what Warren Industries did. I did know it was a multi-trillion business that had several hotels, restaurants, airlines, and every other branch of industry known to man. That was about it, however. It seemed like my boss bought any kind of business he could and stuck his last name on it. My job was not to know the business. It was to know my boss and make sure all his needs were met. Knowing Mr Warren was an impossible task. It was hard to get to know a person when all they did was spend twenty-four-seven behind their desk. I had never seen the man leave the room apart from a few important meetings. I was not exaggerating. One time when I was behind on checking my emails, I came into the building at two in the morning and he was there. I doubted he even slept. His only priorities were his business and his money. Even after six years of working for the man, his coldness and his anti-socialness still managed to leave me speechless. The keyboard slammed under my fingers as I quickly typed a response to the finance team a few floors below. My typing never lasted long. As I started to pick up speed on answering my inbox, the loud noise of papers hitting the other desk in the room filled the air. "What can I do for you, Mr Warren?" I forced out politely while grounding my