Work Text:
Decagon Pharmaceutical, Ltd.
[REDACTED]
Pagosa Springs, CO
80202
[REDACTED]
[REDACTED]
Denver, CO
July 24, 2004
Subject: Termination of Employment
Dear [REDACTED],
The purpose of this letter is to inform you that your employment with Decagon Pharmaceutical, Ltd. will officially end on July 27, 2004. Your dismissal is due to the following reasons:
- Leaking internal company information to the public,
- Trespassing on company property,
- Assaulting a company security officer.
Until this date, we request that you do not continue coming to work. You will be sent all necessary documents relating to your termination 3 (three) business days after the end date of your employment.
If you have any questions, please contact Human Resources Department at [REDACTED]
Respectfully,
[SIGNATURE REDACTED]
[REDACTED],
Human Resources Department
<><><>
I stare into the letter that came into my mailbox today, reading it once before throwing it onto the desk of mine in the bedroom. They fired me, it was obvious based on what I did, but their job felt unfinished...incomplete.
Decagon won’t finish a job this “ineffectively”. I reach for my phone on the kitchen counter and call a number, and I am glad she picks it up.
“Hi, I know this is quite abrupt, but I have to tell you that I need to be away for some while, clearing my head.” My tone is playful, but it was laced with deception. Who knows if Decagon also taps my phone?
“Er, that’s good, yes, that’s fine, where?” My friend responds from the other end, oblivious of what I did though also confused of the sudden remark.
“Just somewhere far, Seattle, I guess?”
“You guess?”
“It's just an...unplanned vacation, that is.”
“Oh, uh, yeah that’s good, take some rest. Talk to you later then.”
“You too!” she hangs up my call afterwards, yet I keep staring into the telephone. I finally put the phone down and sigh.
Click, the door closes louder than usual. My belongings are lightweight, just some clothes and amenities I cram into an old suitcase of mine. I shove the key into my pants, simultaneously while trying to solve this problem alone.
“I cannot rely on anyone anymore,” I mutter to myself, while walking to the driver’s seat of my car, “I cannot let my friends know,” my suitcase thrown to the passenger’s seat. “I cannot let my mom know,” the car door shuts beside me. “I have to leave NOW,” my palm turns the key car in the slot, the engine rumbles to life.
Seattle, why did I pick that before? It’s a journey that’ll take hours if not days by car. Do I even know anyone living there? I also did not do any research of this departure outside a very short plan I scribble on a paper, it sits in my pocket for now. In slight frustration, and how I’ve been sitting in my heated up car for 10 minutes already, I shake my head multiple times before backing off the driveway. I won’t see this house anymore, I made lots of memories here, even if I just stayed here for three years. I got a wad of cash in my bank account, and some in my wallet, so it should be enough.
For one last moment, I stare into the road in front of me. Inhale, hold, exhale. Alright.
“I must bear the consequences after all,” then I drove away from the house.
<><><>
18:54, the digital clock shown on my car is not wrong in the slightest, and my watch tells the same time. I’ve been driving for 8 hours now, not even stopping once in fear of anyone tracking me behind, but it seems I am safe.
My bladder has been full since I entered Wyoming but the paranoia kept it empty. I stop by a large gas station, hastily park my car and rush into the restaurant, only to stop in my step, my eyes wide in shock. My right hand clutches on my stomach. My bowels are also full.
<><><>
“We’re out of any steak.” The cashier with tired eyes stands before me behind the counter, a paper in his hand, writing my order.
“What do you guys have then?”
“We still have the breakfast meals here and other dinners if you want.”
“I guess breakfast this late is okay then. Egg bacon and cheese on a roll- can you put hashbrown on it?”
“Alright,” he jots my order down, “and for the drink?”
“Decaf is fine.”
He only answers with a nod as he pulls the paper and attaches it to the window separating the kitchen and the restaurant. I take a seat on the counter, taking a heavy exhale.
My eyes wander around the interior of the diner. I could spot some hanging pictures, old people and barnyard, nothing to be noted for. The booths are okay, I guess, I did not sit there so I can’t have a say on the feeling. The stool below me however is hard but sturdy enough, not like I am heavy, though.
The plan I cram into my right pocket, I just remember that I plan to read it long ago when I left my house. Now that I have free time, I take the paper and read it.
plan for running away:
- get into new state (better far away)
- get new identity (just sleep in car while waiting)
- start over
What a rudimentary plan. I jotted this down right before my breach some days ago. I’ve planned everything with precision to the last bit, but this feeling of Decagon breathing on my nape is always present. The feeling that the white-coated agent would just stand behind me, with a syringe, methodically disarm-
“AH!”
“I’m sorry, here’s your order.”
Even the slightest interruption made me jump. I stare down at my late breakfast: a sandwich with crisps bacon, over medium egg, that American cheddar slice, and a hashbrown in between. I open the top toast and pour down the hot sauce and ketchup myself, before using my two hands to bite in. Mhm...my gosh, this is amazing. I bite into another, and another. Etiquette is standing outside the restaurant as I eat- or maybe devour this meal.
Seven minutes, seven minutes for me to eat the whole sandwich, turning the plate clean with only the smears of sauce. I feel great, a handkerchief sweeps my mouth roughly as my hand does so. My left hand reaches the white mug and closes the distance from it to my mouth. The coffee is warm now, and I did not put anything there yet so it’s fully bitter. Decaffeinated, because the last time I drank caffeine, it made my heart race. Been on decaf for years now.
“Thank you, come again.” The bell above me rings as I exit the diner. I’ve paid with the money in my wallet, okay? I sit down on the driver seat, staring deeply into the dawning night in the horizon. I have to continue my trip, so many more hours to go. My car has been warming itself too long.
After the grand exhale, I back away from the gas station and return to the highway.
<><><>
23:02, I have to stop in this very small town of Salt Lake City, all because my car demanded fuel too like me before. In a swift motion, I roll it into a gas station and park beside one of the pumps, though I am not immediately heading into the store to pump it.
…
Continuing this trip is a suicide mission itself.
I think over what I did like...hours ago, back when I had a call with my friend still in Denver. I just flat out have busted my plan by stating I am heading to Seattle. Now riddle me this: on what chance they haven’t tapped my phone already? Those folks got a whole binder for that specific action, they won’t back down on a whistleblower. As I am speaking right now, they have had their paramilitary posted around any road leading to Seattle. They are ready to stop my car the single second they spot the dust off my windshield. My eyes glide up to the skyline of Salt Lake, I’m halfway on my trip, and I believe I will arrive tomorrow afternoon. They have tons of time to prepare, and I only come with a luggage worth of items, let alone items.
The car door opens forward, my legs come into another stretch after 3 grueling hours of driving. I step toward the convenience store and push the glass door open. The chips aisle and the water aisle grab my eyes first, so I take one of each and move into the counter.
“Pump 2 please, and this too,” I slide a bottle of water and a bag of chips.
“That’ll be $13.04,” the clerk stands tired upon me, but right now he is aware enough. I check my pocket and slide in three $5 bills, he returns me the change I shove into my pocket.
“Thanks,” while I opened the door on my way back.
My right hand keeps pulling the trigger of the pump, loading fuel into the car. Often I think my car is quite beaten. Not that it looks beaten, I clean it often, the ash blue paint is still visible everywhere. It's just that I am not good in terms of engine, so I am sure something has snapped there, despite having no problem in these years.
I return the pump and hop back in, my right hand grabs on the water bottle and cracks them open. Gulp, gulp, gulp, ah...that’s nice. Now, the plan.
<><><>
Sigma Motel, with the sigma notation as their logo beside the text on the sign. The building is fine, what can you expect? This is a cheap motel I merely aim as a quick getaway and rest. I’ve been driving for more than 12 hours, I am tired to the bone.
Again, the bell chimes above me when I enter the office section of the motel. A woman stands behind the counter, I approach her.
“Can I get a room?” I stand across from her now.
“For how long?” Her accent is thick, she expected worse customers than me.
“One night.”
“Mhm,” she writes down in the big book, “name?”
“Skylar.”
“Full name?”
“Alton.”
“One night would be $30.” She returns to face me after finishing writing my name.
The last bill in my wallet, $50, looking up at me. Unfortunately, I have to hand it to her. She hands me the change alongside the room key with its number as the keychain. I thank her and exit the office room of the motel. The previous suitcase I brought is now in my right hand as I climb upstairs.
Now I stand before 202, I insert the key into the hole and turn it over, and once the green door swings open, it reveals the interior. There’s a bed beside the bathroom, facing a small, but bulky television propped on a wooden table. Then a brown couch beside me with a coffee table across it, then a white chair next to the television facing the bed.
I throw my suitcase beside the bed and plant my face on the bed. I did not turn the AC first and I am sure I have locked the door. So, in that next second, I fell asleep.
<><><>
“AH! AH!” I stand up abruptly with a scream as the alarm of the motel room. Decagon must’ve got me! My goodness...I slam the alarm aggressively and rest down on the die of the bed. The digital clock shows me 8:00, I mean it is morning enough, and I got eight hours of sleep. My hands slide the curtains open, the sun streams in, lightening my room without a lamp. The parking lot is visible from here, and I have seen people leaving and arriving. Not my business though, but my business however is that I am hungry.
I get breakfast in a fastfood chain considering I only have $20 left. I think I can stretch it to tomorrow. After breakfast, I explore the area around my motel on foot, then have a lunch of gas station food and water. In the afternoon and evening, I drive around Salt Lake City, stopping by tall skyscrapers and points of interest. Now...I only have $2 left for dinner, where either I only buy a bag of chips and another water, or I try to withdraw money from my bank account.
To note, I haven’t found anything suspicious in my run. No one is following me, no one is knocking my door, no one is being weird to me (other times they are just weird to everyone so that’s fine). So, in one last decision, I choose to withdraw, then my wallet is full of $100 bills, and for dinner is Salisbury steak with potatoes.
Back in the motel, I even think to extend my stay, so why not?
“Can I extend my stay to a week?”
“That’ll be $240, sir.” There’s now a young man instead of the lady from last night. I hand him three $100 bills and he lends me the change.
At night, I only stay in my motel room, watching the television and eating cookies I bought. I think I can relax for now before advancing further.
<><><>
One week has passed, and safe to say Decagon loses track of me. The paranoia has settled down, and I think I have been less careful lately. I swam in the motel’s pool before, washed my clothes too in a laundromat, and even went to a cinema to watch something (I picked a random movie). I guess I should restart my life in Salt Lake then, instead staying on my plan to head further northwest.
“Thank you for the stay!” the young man clerk waves at me after I hand the key back, the luggage is already in my car. I return to my car and drive away from its parking lot.
I cruise along rows of apartment buildings in the city center, eyeing for the one that’s cheap enough but also not like I’ll live in a tin box. My foot has to press on the brake pad as this very apartment shows off a delicious offer. I meet the landlord, we have a talk on the ground floor, I ask about the amenities and his answer satisfies me. Good price, one bedroom apartment, no garage but I can use the street parking anyway so it’s fine. I pay for three months, he hands me the key, 403 on the key itself, and I shake hands with him.
The apartment looks nice. Upon entering, I am greeted with a large room reserved for the living room, then a counter as a separation with the kitchen. Right in front of the front door are two doors, opening the left door reveals a bedroom with a window and nothing else; opening the right door reveals a bathroom with a shower head, sink, and toilet. Last but not least is a small storage room beside the front door, it’s not like I will need a massive room for my items.
I take one last look before sitting on the carpet. I have to buy some furniture, new silverwares, a bed too, and bathroom amenities. So many things to do when you have to start a new life. I guess for now a bed is enough. Scouring used furniture is fine for me, but I think it’s best if I just get a brand new mattress instead.
My car pulls up in the mall nearby, large enough I am sure they have a mattress store, hopefully. I walk inside, having the air conditioner washes the heat off my back. Inside the mall, I shot my eyes to the mattress shop first. I inspect the cheapest one they have for a single bed. The salesman offers me a wooden, easy-to-assemble (he said) bed frame as a bundle, why not? I pay the two and leave the store.
While at it, why not get an ice cream? I decide to take a detour to visit the parlor near the big fountain. The bell chimes above as the cashier smiles at me.
“Can I get a scoop of...” I look at their selection, “mint?”
“Cone or cup, sir?”
“Cone, I’m feeling jolly today.” I crack a laugh, she follows suit politely. A waffle cone now has a spherical mint ice cream on it.
“Here’s your ice cream, Mr. Jolly.” The ice cream cone rests in my left hand as I hand her the cash, even I tell her to keep the change as I leave with a smi-
“Alton,” someone takes me in a friendly hug, but this is far from a friendly hug. They stab me with a syringe, a straight shot into the veins of my free hand. My eyes are wide as saucers, the figure still holds the facade as a long relative.
“Thank you for your contribution to Decagon Pharmaceutical. Consider this our complimentary merchandise.” They pull the syringe out and shoves a notebook into my free hand. “See you later, Alton.”
Splat, now the ice cream is on the floor, as I kneel down in phantom pain. My breath becomes shallow, sweat rains upon me. This...no, no no no, no it can’t be, no...Decagon...
...
...
My head hurts.