Five years they’ve kept me here; weak, hungry, lagging behind in my daily work (if that’s what they insist on calling it), foul of mood and mind, itching for forbidden ways to pass the time. If I was free, none of those ways would be restricted from my use… If only I was free from this.
My hands wear signs of daily torture though you might not see them; miniscule as they are. The tiny cuts burn like a million tiny fires of hell as I squeeze the lemons in his tea each morning with a smile that belies my desperation to escape.
“See me tomorrow so we can take care of this mess”
His arm waves across this Chamber of Confusion to illuminate the towering mountains of precariously balanced piles of files and miscellaneous mess. I cringe as those tiny razors, seemingly embedded on every, single edge, seem to laugh at me with their copy-bright perfection and their scathing black lines of smirking text.
Beelzeboss is deceiving with his polite demeanor. “Oh, I don’t mind!”, he attempts to assure me when I put cinnamon in the coffee brewed for the annual roundtable.
For the past five years, I’ve known his “mind”.
For the past five years, they’ve succeeded in securing my internal insignificance while allowing his comrades and associates to believe my presence here matters. The joke’s on me…
Beelzeboss has allowed his highest level underling to make me her plaything. I am a fashionably dressed toy to trifle with as I am alternately made a slave to her game and put back on the shelf and ignored. Left to fester in intellectual agony and stagnate; the very fibers of my creativity screaming in protest.
Beelzebitch can be the cruelest of mistresses. Takes one under her wing and then kicks you out of the nest; all while almost making you believe its for your own good