A bus killed Quinn.
She was rolled over—her neck crushed into a patty of mashed bone and caked meat. She died at the feet of a group of men like a wild dog on the road—useless and forgotten, a nobody.
No one cried when her body was wheeled into the mortuary; not one soul was there at her funeral. And her money was absorbed by the government, later used to fix a pothole in a red-light district meant for drug dealers and underpaid prostitutes. More specifically, it was a street where old men would take blow jobs, and that hole in the road had been as much of a nuisance as pubic hair in teeth could be.
It was pathetic; the fact that she'd slaved to improve the safety of a road meant for bastards that cheated on their wives and exploited women.
Morbidly, the only form of love shown to her dead body was from her colleagues. They had jerked off to her things: pens, documents with her handwriting, combs that had her hair still in its teeth, clips— they said it was a memorial for her tits.
In their words, she wasn't an aeroplane runway with a flat landscape for a chest and two little nipples like pimples on skin. She was voluptuous the way men liked them to be, and had breasts that were fat, full, and perky like a porn star.
Idiots.
She was boring but had a good figure, they'd said, ugly, but with a body meant for fucking. They used to whisper those words to each other behind their desks, loud enough for her to hear. Over lunch, they would snicker and laugh about the state of her hair, and the look of her clothes.
Not pretty enough, was what they used to say, she needs makeup, heels, and a little more sex appeal. Not enough for the office.
Quinn had dull skin from the overwork, a squared jaw from grinding her teeth too much, and small thin eyes—they'd dragged their fingers to the corners of their own eyes, insulting what could not be changed. Her biology. Her goddamn ethnicity.
With class so desperately lacking, the absence of humanity or education was blatant in their very existence.
Motherfuckers.
Quinn was always alone in the big bad world of assholes. And she didn't live long enough to salvage her crappy situation; didn't stay to turn empty homes and quiet nights into laughter and love from people that genuinely enjoyed her presence.
In her defence, there was simply no time in a world that begged for money. She'd sworn over birthday candles that she would retire when her bank account was healthy; that she would leave the toxicity when she was settled for life. At the very least, all her pain had to amount to something. She had to see the project through, and then quit at the very end.
Her plan had been perfect, her life? Not so much.
Her death had been her fault not the bus driver's. She'd escaped the curb, body squeezed through a bush that concealed her skin. She had appeared at a blind spot, morphed before a driver's eyes—a drunk idiot on the street cosplaying as a ghost.
It was stupid of her to drink when she couldn't. And drinking anything remotely alcoholic was strange for her because she'd always hated liquor and its thin, sharp scent. But Quinn had drank on that fateful night, slurped down goblets of vodka meant for people twice her size and with three times more tolerance.
There were reasons for her alcoholic surrender. Of course, there were. Why else would one so lightweight would consume alcohol: the explanation for thousands of fuck ups and hundreds of accidents?
Her situation?
A product of a life-changing dream that was sculpted into reality.
"Float was my idea the report should have my name. You should have given me the credit." Hissed out those words felt odd on her tongue. She was usually kinder, sarcastic yes, but malice was never her cup of tea despite the coldness of her workplace.
The air in the office was thin and frosted, cold because of the AC, colder because of the eyes that were directed her way. They were hostile despite the years she'd spent behind its walls. The environment was unfamiliar despite its status as her home for countless nights spent at her computer. She was a familiar face, an ally in war and yet they all seemed to hate her.
They didn't want her here, even if she were their most competent employee. Even if she were the damned golden goose laying all their golden eggs. They'd used her, squeezed her dry and now they wanted her gone so that they could reap her rewards.
Parasites.
He cocked his head back, smooth smirk on his lips. In a dream, she'd thought him handsome with his sleeked back hair and cleanly shaven face. He had a smile that lit up his eyes and teeth that made him feel friendlier.
He wasn't too bad then, and she liked him when he smiled at her enough; offered the extra help; and bought her a cup or two of coffee. He feigned generosity and she adored that. A helpful male was enough for her. Admittingly, her standards were lowered by a desperate need for love, and a smile plus a lack of cock-driven leering was all it took for her to be smitten.
Mistakes were made when she allowed his hands to linger on hers, his body in her personal space, his breath on her neck. His fingers down her thighs, a tap on her ass as if he had the right to touch her there. But she closed both eyes and allowed it to happen because god, he might be the one.
She wanted him to be the one.
But more slip-ups were made when she gave him access to her life's work just because he was kind; just because he texted her after work; just because he was sweet. She was impulsive and lonely, and he'd latched onto that.
She let her guard down thinking that perhaps his presence in her life was a sign from the world. That maybe he could be her soulmate. Hers in a world where there were couples with red strings connecting their pinkies; lovers with their first words to one another tattooed on their skin; and other beautiful ways fate allowed them to find one another.
Quinn didn't know what her way was, she should have a long time ago like the rest of the population. But she had hope that her soul mark was just obscure, and her soulmate perhaps a tad younger than her.
And she didn't mind waiting, didn't really mind the sleepless nights spent in bed thinking about her future, or the times she'd averted her gaze away from families in the park. With work, there wasn't much time to think about that anyway. She didn't have time to go on dates now so surely her soulmate was just waiting for her to finish the project.
And maybe he was within reach, working at the same company, and just waiting for her to succeed.
Quinn didn't care for looks, all she wanted was a kind soul and a big heart. And he'd sunk his teeth onto that fact and used her the way he used the people in his life.
She was easy prey.
"You?"
He snorted, and rubbed at the apple he'd pulled from the pockets in his slacks. The red flesh was bruised and waxy, but annoyingly fresh when he bit into the fruit. The belt tightened over the belly that sported in his middle as he sighed. How she thought him handsome in the past then she didn't know. Now all she saw was every stinking bit of ugliness in his crater-like face.
"You don't need it."
"The boss gave you a raise for that project," she pointed to the files on the desk and the paper crinkled under her nails, "a project that I was working on, the project that I've spent years and years researching, studying—"
"You don't need a raise."
He'd crunched into the fruit, horse-like teeth bulky as he chewed noisily—opened mouth, slobbered tongue, and wet smacks of pale, thin lips. She was disgusted, but he was on the fucking moon for the glory that should be rightfully hers.
He was acting as if she'd already lost.
"You don't have a family," he paused for dramatic effect, gave her a side glance filled with feigned pity, "it's natural that I need it more..."
More unspoken words hung in the air and her cheeks burned, fists clenched tighter. Quinn had given up everything for this project: family, friends, and her sanity. That thought alone made tears burn at the back of her throat.
All that time, all those hours, all that hard work—had it all been for nothing? God, she wanted to kill him, she wanted to snap his neck, stab the pencil in his eyes and laugh as blood squirted from his lips. She wanted him gone. She might want him dead.
Her voice escaped her, whispery thin: "Why? Because you're a man?"
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