Blood in the Boardroom

Cold air blows from the vents at precisely seventy-one degrees Fahrenheit. Outside, rain slides down the window panes, racing to the gutter, like so many do. Lightning flashes a streak across the slate-gray sky. Thunder rumbles above, and they rumble below, toiling beneath the soles of those who stepped on their faces to reach the top. Down below, endless cars drive on one-way streets. Are they going the right way or the wrong way? Who can say? Perhaps the only way is the highway out of here.

Desks stand in rows, lined up neatly against the next. Soulless cubicles are no longer allowed--collaboration needs to win the day! Demolishing the walls only makes them see the imbalance among the toiling few, inciting resentment as they try to tip the scale. 

They laugh and play while the boss is away, or it’s time theft. No privacy is available except in the bathroom, one hopes. Check your phone on the toilet and hope that no one peeks between the partitions. 

Burnt office coffee singes the nose, the only option available. Cut the sludge with powdered creamer and refined sugar—only the best for the toiling employees. Curated snacks that offer brief flashes of sugar highs, filled with factory-made ingredients and nothing much else. Can’t have apples, because one bad apple will spoil the bunch. But what can a good apple do—filled with life and arsenic? 

She watches all, narrow eyes assessing the excessive crimes committed against the worker bees. They need a queen to protect them. Without the queen, they will die. 

The boardroom, encased in the clearest glass, is half-filled. Or half-empty? You choose. 

The self-appointed leadership team sits around the conference table. Men in suits—slick ties and shoes—never next to one another, but distanced and apart. Can’t be too friendly with anyone who might stab you in the back. 

At the head of the table, the CEO, who bought the company to fund his ego. To his right, the man who demands that his ideas are the only ones worth considering. The rest—pions and yes-men—who regurgitate business jargon. 

Voices overlap, discussing the most important topic of the day: how to market another sugary cereal to hoards of decaying children. The boardroom is thick with carbon dioxide smog, human exhaust that kills the trees. Lengthen the profit margin by cutting the worker bees. Snip, snip. Who does the work anyway? Surely there is someone left who will bleed for profits. 

The digital clock on the wall tick, tick, ticks down the minutes of every hour spent supporting a delusion. The same ideas, over and over, with no consideration for the world outside the boardroom. Comfortable in glass silos, privileged enough to ignore the world’s problems. Drought. Inflation. War. 

Perhaps the sound is the rain ticking on the windows, tick tick tick, as the deluge washes away grime on the street, a temporary cleansing before the city dries up again, leaving behind faded memories of progress and innovation. 

Or the ticking of nails, rapping against the glass, wishing to come inside. Blood pulses through veins that reach for the ladder as it slides upward and out of reach.

She slides the door open, just a crack. A demure smile—-an accepted form of currency among such men. Before the ladder can disappear, her fingers grip the bottom rung. Her high heels finally serve a purpose. Just don’t let them look up while you walk on the glass ceiling.

Don’t you dare leave a fingerprint, they say. Just a sliver of space, wide enough to slip inside. 

She sits alone while eyes stare her down, assessing everything from mascara to blemish to breasts. Despite the leering eyes, she holds her shoulders high. She made it inside with a lie—a smile that conceals her sharpened teeth. 

Expectant glances—waiting for her to speak, but no one hears. She listens but no one speaks the truth. Pain throbs in her temples, waiting for a glimmer of sanity among the insane, as though the lobotomy has returned to restore the senses. Snip, snip.  

No idea is a bad idea.

The lie falls easily from their lips, falling like the rain outside, washing down to the streets where oil and piss and blood collect. Down to the sewers amongst the garbage and waste. Down where you belong if you do not comply. 

Their gasoline douses ideas, soaking through her clothes. But before they can light the match, her tears fall on the glass table, tick tick tick. Never mistake tears for sadness.

A poke, a prod. The final jab in an open wound—one that can only heal once the sickness bleeds out. A quivering lip is enough to make them laugh. But they are mistaken for believing she is defeated. It’s not just tears she sheds—she sheds her skin, the one covered in scars. She reveals her strength built by years of indignity. It crumbles into dust on the expensive hardwood floor—a layer of grim that will remain forever, for the men in suits have cut the janitor’s hours. 

Vicious anger bubbles inside her like a witch’s cauldron boiling her revenge– it smells like burnt coffee with an iron tang of blood.

Like a cobra, she rears back and strikes. Baring down with venomous teeth, piercing the skin, spreading the sickness’s antidote into their blood. 

You ignited the flame to burn this place to the ground.

A wicked expression contorts her face, met with fear from the men-in-suits. The fear she wished to taste on her tongue, refined sugar sweet. She licks her lips, dives in, and plunges the antidote deeper into their veins. Teeth, more efficient than a syringe, tear apart skin that will scar but never heal. For an ego is fragile and dainty. 

Your hubris has cost you everything.

Her fingers become coffin nails driving down deeper and deeper--burying the dead beneath the ashes of their arrogance. Ribbons of expensive fabric flutter to the ground, bursting like confetti during a parade these men don't deserve. Her coffin nails rip through muscle, etching her words into virgin bones. 

She strikes one final time. Reaching into their minds to expose their nightmares—she leaves behind images of failure and nakedness in front of the world, as exposed and cold as the day they emerged from their mother’s womb. Women can breathe life into the world, and they can take it away. 

Your very existence has destroyed this place from the inside out. 

Tick, tick, tick, her heels on the wood floor. She leaves behind shattered egos, clinging to their mediocrity, praying for someone to save them. Doubt burns in their minds. Her parting gift, oh such sweet sorrow.

She opens the glass door, leaving bloody fingerprints behind.

Tick, tick, tick.

Who’s next?

October 2024

End Notes

This short story was inspired by an Ani DiFranco song called "Blood in the Boardroom." I also drew inspiration from a previous job. I do hope you enjoyed!

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