Sick Leave

Sick leave? Are you fucking kidding me? I can't go on sick leave, I need the money!

This is all that... that thing's fault, the suit thing. I was sitting at my drill press on the assembly line, over by the window. Looking out of it, like I usually do. Looking out at the little cherry tree. I didn't do anything but glance up for a second.

It was back.

It was standing near the big ash by the parking lot, across the street. At first I thought it was one of the directors coming in for a meeting, so I payed no attention to it.

Then I started to feel nauseous. You know that queasiness you get when you wanna throw up, but you can't? It was like that, mixed with a little dizziness. I had to shut the drill press off so I didn't hurt myself, that's how bad I felt.

Then I stumbled over to the waste bin to spew, the murmurs of my coworkers expressing their concern humming around me like bumblebees. I didn't even realize why I was so sick until I looked up and out the window again.

Jesus H. Christ, It was standing right there at the window.

Watching.

Waiting.

I dunno what exactly happened, but I think I must have blacked out. All I remember is waking up and seeing the floor manager standing over me, looking concerned.

That's when he told me he didn't think I looked well, that maybe I should take sick leave. Something about me screaming about faceless guys in suits, then fainting. Said he thought it must have been stress, that I'd acting weird for the last couple of days.

Stress my ass. That wasn't stress. It was that thing, that thing in the suit. But hell, what do I know? It was just fucking stress and clearly I need to get laid off from my job over it!

Guess me seeing it again on the drive home and nearly ending up in a ditch was just stress too, huh, boss?