Oleander DreamsChapter 8
- 3 years ago
- 28
- 0
Oleander DreamsChapter 4 free porn video
Despite L. Martinus’s request, I take my meds like I’m supposed to. I have to go to work, and I can’t afford to be off my game.
The new meds are different, I think. I’m calmer, for one thing. Everything I see as I walk to work seems covered in a gossamer shroud. The sun is muted and doesn’t blare in my eyes.
Most importantly, I don’t have any disconcerting auditory or olfactory hallucinations. It’s a perfect morning, cool, and the humidity ubiquitous to Louisiana is absent. The streets are mostly empty of foot traffic. I have to say, the law requiring you to work no more than three miles from where you live cuts down on rush hour angst and pollution. Cars are illegal without a special permit, in fact, and no one’s seen a combustion engine in years.
I walk into my building, and the scent of orchids hits me in the face. It’s vehement and loud. There are no flowers, yet the fragrance is pervasive. I wonder if someone is wearing perfume. It grows stronger as I make my way to my office, and I resolve to ignore it.
My office is as its always been. Tan industrial carpet softens my footsteps, but not enough to cushion my feet against the concrete floor. The walls are a tired beige that hides the dust lingering in the corner. Muted lighting powered by solar panels is designed to ease eyestrain. There is no conversation, and no sound except the quiet tapping of computer keys.
As I sit at my desk and power up my laptop, my boss, D. Webster, walks in, a look of surprise on his round face. He’s younger than I am, but a life of boredom and unfulfilling relationships has made his expression pinched and tired. ‘What are you doing here?” he asks.
“I work here,” I say, pushing my reading glasses down my nose so I can see him. “Do you have the water consumption figures from last week?”
“You took this week off, N. Reynolds.” He frowns down at me. “The form says you needed a mental health break.”
I lean back in my chair, somehow unsurprised, but I’m not about to show it. D. Webster hates vacation requests, and a mental health reprieve would be the only acceptable reason to take time off. I dredge up a weak smile and shake my head. “I’m sorry. I think I must really need that break. I completely forgot asking for it.”
His face softens and he gives me a ghost of a smile. “Yeah, we’ve been swamped the last few weeks. I think I’ll take one myself when you come back.”
I nod and power off my computer. “Sounds like a good idea. I can’t believe I forgot mine.”
He pats my shoulder awkwardly and says, “You’ve been putting in a lot of hours. And you’ll need time to get ready for your offspring, too.”
Smiling brightly, I nod. “Yes,” I say. “I didn’t want to tell anyone until it had been approved. I’m very excited.”
“Congratulations! I’ll see you next week.”
D. Webster wanders away and I let out a breath of irritation mixed with apprehension. I’ve never lied to my boss before, or to anyone, really. It doesn’t sit well, but I’m not sure what else I might have said. If I’d told him that I hadn’t filled out the request, he’d have had questions I couldn’t answer.
Part of me wonders if I had filled out those stupid forms. Had I had a reaction to the old meds? What other forms were out there waiting to disrupt my life like little land mines?
Would my apartment be next? I have no attachment to the place. It’s exactly the same as every other apartment in the city, and I have no belongings that can’t be easily replaced.
I didn’t fill out the procreation form. L. Martinus as good as admitted that he’d done it. He must have filled out the vacation request as well. As I leave my office building, I finger the stiff card stock in my pocket.
There’s only one place I might find the answers I need. I pull the card from my pocket. It has the initials LM on it, and an address deep within the old French Quarter. I cross the street and check out a public bicycle for the trip. I risk my movements being tracked by the sensors in the bike, but it’s too far to walk.
Cameras on every street light follow my movements anyway. If the government wants to know my location, they don’t need a bike sensor to do it. I throw my leg over and pedal grimly toward my destination.
Marisol
- 14.04.2022
- 25
- 0
