I hate when people think that books are products.They're more than just another product to sell to people and make extra cash, and I'd like to defend that as an editor here at Wibooks. I rush to my office, bumping past a bunch of other workers who I assume don't have the same opinion as me. This office corridor is more populous than usual. Like a bunch of rats gathered for some cheese—and that cheese seems to be at my office, according to my vision.Does it matter? Freaking management wants to drop a great manuscript because it doesn't fit their audience. We can traditionally publish it. Less profitable, but imagine how many new authors we could get onto the platform. Authors with worlds better than any other novel in our care.
"Naomi, long time no see." Hannah somehow pushed through the crowd and found me, cheeks upright and teeth all out. I'm literally sprinting without the speed needed; there is sweat pouring out of my skin. Hannah matches my speed, still maintaining that big smile, more real than my pathetic life.
"Why are you so sweaty? No man likes that." My boyfriend broke up with me because I was 'not girly enough'—not that you know, but I don't care what men find tasty—I find liking decent books especially delicious, but those men all disappeared from my life. Stop thinking so much. I have the job of choosing the best books given to me and fixing everyone's mistakes.
"Hannah, stop thinking so hard. Your forehead's going to get bigger." I smirk at her, fixing my hair as I am at the doorstep to my office, full of people arguing about nonsense. I burst in, and an explosion of silence erupts as I stand at the entrance, staring at all these halfwits.
"Who decided my working space would be the best place to quarrel? Do you value your job?" They all stare at me for a moment and turn their eyes to the right, telling me something important is there. Tilting my head to the right, my eyes witness a horrible sight before me. Firstly, this random dude with messy but oddly attractive brown hair comes to work with an unbuttoned shirt and green irises, staring at me like I am some peasant. He even has a black suit to top it all off. It's screaming, "I'm desperately looking for ladies." He has the jawline and nose and everything else, but not the attitude.
"Does it matter? No man will step into my area and start an argument." My assistants lock eyes on me like I am some fool, and the mysterious, ugly being—attractive gentleman—scoffs like he is the boss of the world. I know the boss, and he isn't here.
"I decided your suggestion wasn't profitable," he says, finally opening his mouth. I don't understand. I worked at Penguin Random House, the biggest publishing house in the world. Although I get emotional sometimes, I can recognize a good book quickly.
"Sorry, and you are? Have you ever read a novel in your life? Unlike some macho men, I read books for a living." The dude smirks at me, stepping closer to me.
"I'm the CEO. You're lucky some macho men value experience and talent over respect. Otherwise, you'd be unemployed right now." Shoot. I almost lost my job after only working here for some weeks. My breath becomes unsteady, and I match the defiance in his eyes. I'm scared, but we must fight for what is right.
"Ok. That doesn't make your decision correct. You have to understand that my suggested launch title would be profitable, giving you a few more billions." The muscles in his face contract, and a bit of veins pop out of his neck.
"I see. You think I'm that stereotypical rich bitch, huh?" My bias split through my words.
"My decision is final. Don't you dare comment." I will comment. That's my job: comment on other people's work and make it better. I can't really edit or delete him out of this situation. He walks out of the room; the crowd of viewers makes a perfect shape of space for him to leave. His footsteps are rapid, like I really pissed him off.
He pissed me off too. Hannah storms into the room, eyes more open than her mouth. She grabs my upper arm and locks eyes with me.
"Girl, you just fought with the CEO and survived." Yes. I did that. My heart just finished running a marathon, and my lungs suffocated from fear.
"What's his name?" Hannah lights up, giving me that look my mom gave me when I got my first lover. No. Hell no. He has a horrible taste in literature—if Penguin picks it up, I'll be the one laughing, hands on my hips.
"It's Derrick. Shall I give you his phone number?" I will never have his number on my phone. Hannah walks out of the room, giving me a wink while doing so.
The only funny thing right now is I spent half an hour having some internal conflict instead of fixing fictional conflict. I place myself on my lovely couch, the only functioning thing today, and start exploring through my manuscripts.
After a while, my lunch break starts, and I step out of the building. The wind bites my skin, threatening to take it off. A bright yellow ball sits in the sky, yet the wind forgot to read that cue. Never forget to bring a jersey, jacket, or something warm.
I'm munching through my bread, and my ears spot footsteps that are coming closer to me. I raise my head to see a group of females looking at me like I have done the gravest sin. There is one girl that does not blend into the group; she has blonde hair and is taller than our office door.
"You're such a psycho," the tall girl says, crouching to my height as I sit on the pavement at my occupation's building. Am I a psycho? Maybe I do lack empathy, and I am just corrupt everywhere, or maybe I'm brighter than my skin color.
"You dare speak like that to Derrick," she continues, and I also do so by eating another slice of bread. How could I care about Derrick? I have to worry about my brother. I don't think this job will pay enough to take care of him. I might have to get another job.
I hate that there was a brain aneurysm in my mother, and I never thought of getting her checked out till the end. Until I saw her having a seizure in front of me. Hoping and begging some higher being, or logic, to save her. It didn't happen. Life has this way of playing a twisted game where your loved one's die and you regret every decision you made before.
She'll remember me as the selfish, money-loving lady she thought I was. Maybe she was right. I tell myself I'll change and then create such a scene in the office because of my subjective thoughts.
"Earth to Naomi. Wow, she's also deaf." The ladies giggle. The blonde girl walks closer to me, crouches to me, and whispers in my ear:
"No wonder your mom died just to leave you." I am paralyzed. My veins bulge, and blood rushes to my face. My heart gets ready for action as it starts pumping blood through my entire body. I jump up and walk towards her.
"What the heck is wrong with you, huh? Daddy doesn't love you enough, huh? Men don't like girls who are built like a strip pole; the thing is, nobody would want to see you strip." Tears continue to stream down my face.
"How dare you?" I cut her off. She must feel the pain I feel. She pushes me with her arms and repeats her action with more force.
"You can't break what's already broken," I say, and before I send fists flying, the security guard stops both of us. My face's temperature goes back to normal as we are escorted to the management room. Everyone is looking at me. I am the problem, right? If I stopped and swallowed my emotions, I wouldn't be sitting with the blonde girl who hates every night with me. The management walks in, and they take their seats, and somehow all the eyes are on me. Like I started the fight. She started with parents, and I just finished her recipe.
"I don't want to waste time, so I'll just speak quickly: Naomi, I think you should take a break. Your mother passed away, and you've gotten into two altercations. Everyone will understand." My fire is gone. Let life do its worst. I am done. This Derrick-lover offended me and is likely going to be unaffected by her actions.
We are both adults, responsible for our decisions. Blaming her is impossible. If I do, I'll prove my mother's thoughts. Nobody must die thinking that way about me. After those words, the other points slipped from one side of my ears to the other — and when it is done, I drag myself to my old car, open the door, and lock myself in.
My tears sprint out of my eyes, mucus in the mix as well. I fucked up my makeup like I did to my career. Everyone thinks of me as that fucked-up girl who had potential but whose mother died, who is emotionally unavailable, and most especially, who is rude. They want to show empathy and then see me and take it back as fast as they can. People hate me. I hate me.
What is there to hate about my life? I have one friend who I lie to and treat like shit, no person to cuddle with and spill my life story to, and no dreams.