My coffee usually was the indicator of how my day would go. This rule, slash indicator had never faltered. I began to have second thoughts about how I said I'd start my new job on Monday, which was today, considering my coffee wasn't done well. I'd never been one to make good coffee myself. And apparently, the coffee machine had chosen today of all days to go amiss.

Honestly, I count my days less and scream when I can. I cry and admit when I miss things. I hug my big musty teddy bear a little tighter. I watch the clouds like they were a theatrical show. I take care of things I don't cling to. I sleep without looking at the past; the beautiful moments wrap me like a blanket. I open the new chapter of a book and stop when I hate to continue (which is never). I reread the seventeen versions of Pride and Prejudice just because and tell the birds I love you without them hearing it. I wake up to quiet and to peace and watch the sun rise without telling my heart to rush. I embrace my tired eyes; the black sky makes it's home under my lashline.

God. I should stop ranting. The topic of self-care gives me such a rush. 

Hurriedly, I stripped off my sweats and t-shirt that was three sizes too big. And did my regular, comical show of hopping on one leg when I tried to get into my pants. Funny, trying to get into my pants? I chuckled to myself. I hated hours in the bathroom. Anybody who knew me well would never put it past me to skip baths for days on the record.

I was one of those weirdos who'd pretend to enter the bathroom for the sake of taking a bath.

I snuck a look into the mirror, hoping that by some miracle, my hair would be all done and pretty, not like the usual bird's nest. Unfortunately, my hair always seemed to love defying gravity. As usual, not only was it a bird's nest, but multiple nests. It was half wet, considering I'd reckoned drying hair a dull and menial job. Hissing in fury, I tried to button my shirt up with one hand and dry my hair with the other.

How would it feel to wake up with photoshoot-worthy hair some day? Maybe our very own, gorgeous Charlize Theron. God, I'd kill to get hair like her. My hair, however, liked being just your next door neighbor's cherry tree's inhabitant's house, a bird's nest. Wild as it was, it was in a hundred directions. I rushed my brush through it a couple times, maybe pulling out a few strands. I didn't care, I had a generous amount of hair, honey-hued brown with a couple of caramel gold strands.

I dropped the brush on the bed, which looked like I'd trashed it. A side of the large king size bed had been cleared, where I slept last night. Wedged into the corner were my MacBook, headphones, a comic book (I have no idea why I read that, but I did), an empty bowl with various wrappers in it. Sketch pens were spread over half of it. I wondered what Mom would say would she see the sad state of affairs going on in the cleanliness levels of my house.

Quickly, I turned back, running a hand through my hair, which now fell in long strands, framing my oval face. I'd lost a few pounds again. Which was why I left my last job. Senior Economist, in ES Technology. Plus, I had to shift to Montreal. Montreal really wasn't my ideal place; California was. Most importantly, L.A. was all I remembered. Los Angeles had definitely changed a lot. My parents were chatterboxes who complained about me staying far away in Canada, and they were almost knocked senseless when they heard I ended up in the emergency room at my first job during the first year. Now three years fast forwarded, I was back to L.A, with a nice, cozy and luxurious flat I bought with a fat paycheck, courtesy of the long, endless hours of overtime I worked.

Now, now, overthinking makes me pretty, and overtime makes me gorgeous. 

You find it hard when you had to work at odd times in a day, having to reply to ten clients at the same time, and more so because of the frequent stock market fluctuations and occasionally balance of payment crises. And it didn't really help when your overprotective parents had a knack for calling you at least twice a day because they didn't trust a girl in her mid twenties to be able to dodge a few hours without getting herself arrested (for being too gorgeous probably).

In a sour mood, I sit down on the edge of the bed, bending over to tie the laces of my mid-top matching blue sneakers, in my usual messy way. My laces are a literal mess. Picking up my backpack, I hurriedly stuff my MacBook, phone, my notepad, a couple of pens, my diary and sling it across my back, leaving it hanging on one shoulder. Closing my eyes, I snap my fingers in the air once I've made sure that the air conditioner and lights are off. The windows are closed. So is the shower- there have been countless times of how I've left my shower running. You can blame my job.

Of course it had its perks. A hefty amount of money, which got me this amazing, spacious, and luxurious flat in the center of the city, a nice, black Porsche Panamera with zero loans, my student loans settled on my own, branded stuff- what not?

The colleagues?

Intolerable.

The boss? Always raving bossy, ready to blame me for any financial blunders, a big, motherfucker. He thought just because he paid me well, he could buy my time at the dead of the night. Fuck no, I worked when I wanted to.

Which was why, I'd applied for a job at a newer, but way more developed and successful company. In about five years, it had dominated the market incessantly. Intolerably. Unbeatably. Such levels of rising were almost enviable.

I'd worked at two places in three years. The first one got me way more overworked, and made me end up in the emergency room because I hadn't eaten in thirty six hours or so. The second one consisted of bitchy colleagues, and an issue with working hours. Which was why I had mentioned strict adhering to working hours in my new application. Like always, I hadn't bothered looking into my new workplace, but honestly, I'd heard of it a lot in Montreal as well. I had a nice skill of manipulating or intimidating people. Worked twice as well. I'd checked out the Finance Department, and seen the name under Thelonious S. The entrepreneurship had a weirdly strict sense of privacy, and anyways, I was used to changing workplaces. 

There was something weirdly satisfying about changing workplaces. Everytime I walk away from things, I hold my breath and count to ten, and confirm that it doesn't hurt all that much at all. At least, if it does, it never shows. I love how empty I am to the world. Sometimes, I wonder if I'm even human. My own father and mother need to try so hard for them to love me enough for keeping quiet throughout these rides. I love how they talk back to a ghost; I can't even picture myself in my own body. I ran away from it often. I hate that I have to love. I hate that I need to shrink and let the world grow big. I hate that I need to pretend to sing when I want to scream so badly for the world owing  me something big when really, all I want is just one deep empty breath.

I stuffed the granola bar into my mouth and chewed it as I strapped my watch onto my hand. Throwing a last glance over my shoulder and making sure I would return to a flat in one piece, I shut the door as loudly as I could, partly just to annoy the big, fat arsehole next door. I'd complain, but I wasn't a child. I did my things my way, I avenged myself my way.

Sure enough, the meaty, beer-bellied guy poked his head after opening his door just a little bit. He gives me the evil eye, and I do not hesitate to raise both my middle fingers at him. I take off before he can say something else, and I swear I hear little Chloe snicker from the other door. Their flat is where the hallway ends, and I climb into the elevator. It's not packed like other Monday mornings, but that's because I'm early today. Other days, it would be hard to keep from swearing at assholes who would knowingly press up against you even if there'd be enough space. The building is very well maintained and a bit posh, so I might as well control my tongue.

I throw a grin at Adley as she carries a shopping bag and returns the gesture. The sweet woman has been through enough. Her father died in an accident when she was six, and her mother turned to drugs while mourning her dead husband. 

Just another day of life throwing us into cruel loops.

I slide into the plush leather of the driver's seat, and toss my backpack shotgun. There's no rule that says you can't daily drive a Porsche sports car; but with the agile handling and a smooth ride, especially when equipped with the optional adjustable air suspension, the car is a thrill to drive.

The corporate headquarters were actually famed to be  magnificient, but that is the understatement of the year. Modern furniture and minimal lines make for an elegant interior while floating lights in the shape of clouds add softness. A variety of meeting rooms provide separate areas for teams to get together. Made of flawless look-through glass, it's built with sheer expertise. The city is a blur when you look at the magnificent building. It's panoramic. I park my car in one of the empty spaces, and skip into the building once the security is done checking me. The glass panels change colors when viewed from different angles, much like light hitting cracks in a glacier. The inside of the building is as beautiful as the outside; it's difficult to decide which view I like better. On spotting me, a toffee hair colored woman in a yellow blouse and yellow skirt comes towards me, with a bright smile, taking me towards her counter. Her hair is pretty- it's piled on the top of her head. No boobs spill out of her blouse; it all seems too disciplined to be true.

"May I have your name, Ma'am?"

I am slightly annoyed at her perfect little attitude, but that's no way her problem. Wiping the sullenness off my mind, I reply calmly.

"Achelois Crimson."

Author's Note:-

There you go. The first chapter isn't as fast as you think; it's just an insight into the character's life, but no filler. I'll be releasing the second half of Chapter One quite soon. Stay tuned. I look forward to your feedback and love! Remember, it keeps me going, right?! And hell, ducklings, I lobh you.

(づ￣ 3￣)づ

Ta-Ta. Love ya.

Xx,Disha.