BEEP…BEEP…
BEEP…BEEP…
SLAM!
"Stupid alarm," Anthony mutters, rubbing his eyes. It's 6 AM, and he needs to wake up for work. This is a daily routine for him.
Anthony stumbles out of bed, scratching the back of his head as he drags himself toward the bathroom. The shower hisses to life, and he steps under the water, hoping the cold spray will shake off the remnants of sleep. He lets out a shiver and mutters, "Nothing like a freezing shower to start the day…"
After a quick rinse, he throws on a worn shirt, grabs a piece of toast from the kitchen, and shuffles over to the fridge for a carton of milk. He pours it over his cereal, glancing at the clock on the wall. Just another day of working, just another day blending into the next.
After finishing his breakfast, Anthony tosses the empty cereal bowl into the sink, wipes his hands with a towel, and grabs his keys from the hook by the door. He steps outside into the chilly morning air, his breath visible in faint clouds as he crosses the cracked driveway to his car—a thirty-year-old sedan, paint chipped, with dents that tell stories he never learned. He pulls the handle, giving the door a hard tug as it sticks before finally opening with a reluctant creak.
Settling into the worn driver's seat, he can feel the springs pressing up, a reminder of the years that have passed since this car first hit the road. "Alright, don't give me trouble today," he mutters as he inserts the key into the ignition.
He twists. Click.
RUMBLE..RUMBLE..
"Come on…" he groans, leaning forward as though being closer might somehow convince it to start. He gives the dashboard a gentle thump, hoping to jolt it awake. Another turn of the key, and this time the engine gives a half-hearted cough before falling silent again. Anthony leans back, staring at the ceiling, blowing out a sigh of frustration. He can already imagine his boss's look if he's late again, the little shake of the head, the disappointment that sticks more than any words.
He tries once more, giving the key an extra jiggle. "You've gotten me this far. Don't quit on me now," he murmurs to the old machine. This time, the engine sputters, coughs, then finally rumbles to life with a reluctant roar, as though it had simply needed convincing.
Anthony pats the cracked steering wheel, a touch of fondness in his gesture despite the frustration. "There we go. One more day, alright? Just one more day."
As he pulls out of the driveway, the car rattles in protest with each bump in the road, its engine grumbling like an old friend too tired to go on but loyal enough to keep up appearances. He glances at the clock on the dashboard—he's cutting it close. But he's used to it by now, coaxing every mile out of this car, somehow making it through another morning.
As the city slowly stirs awake around him, he feels that familiar pang of dissatisfaction rise in his chest. How many days like this had he already seen? How many more would there be? For now, though, he focuses on the road ahead, gripping the wheel a little tighter as he drives off toward another day.
Anthony merges onto the main road, only to be greeted by a long line of brake lights stretching as far as he can see. "You've got to be kidding me," he mutters, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. The car ahead inches forward, and he follows, feeling his patience wane with every halt and crawl. He checks the clock on the dashboard, grimacing as the minutes tick by faster than the cars are moving.
Every day was the same—a mad dash through morning traffic, hoping to beat the clock. Today, though, luck seemed particularly sour. He clenches his teeth as the line barely moves, watching the time creep past his starting hour.
Finally, the cars clear, and he presses down on the gas, hoping he might still salvage what's left of his punctuality. He pulls into the work lot and hurries inside, the echo of his footsteps almost mocking him as he heads for the staff area.
Inside, his boss, Mr. Rossi, stands by the office door, arms crossed and a watchful eye on the clock. As Anthony slips inside, Rossi's gaze shifts to him, a hard edge in his expression. "Well, look who decided to join us," he says, voice dripping with irritation. "Running late again, are we?"
Anthony opens his mouth to explain, but Mr. Rossi cuts him off. "Save it. I don't care if it's traffic, your ancient car, or the stars aligning against you—this is a job, Anthony. People rely on you being here on time."
Anthony bites back his frustration, nodding as Rossi continues. "If I can't count on you to show up, then maybe I can find someone who will." The words hang in the air, a sharp reminder of how precarious his situation is. "Now, get to work," Rossi finishes, brushing past him without another word.
Anthony lets out a breath, feeling the tension unwind just a fraction as he heads to his station. He knew it wasn't just the car, or the traffic—it was the gnawing realization that every day was starting to feel the same. He stares at his workstation, silently promising himself, One day, things are going to change.
The final hours drag by, with Anthony's mind half on his tasks and half on the events of the morning. When his shift finally ends, he grabs his coat and heads for the exit, ready to shake off the day and crawl into bed.
But just as he reaches the door, he hears his name called. "Anthony," Mr. Rossi's voice rings out, sharper than usual.
Anthony turns to find his boss standing with his arms crossed, his expression grim. There's a tense silence as Mr. Rossi approaches, glancing at the empty workshop around them before fixing his gaze on Anthony.
"We need to talk," he says, his tone curt. Anthony feels his stomach tighten, a sinking sense of what's coming.
Mr. Rossi sighs, but his frustration is clear. "I've tried to give you chances, Anthony. I've tried to be understanding. But every day, it's something—traffic, car troubles, late starts…" He pauses, letting the words settle, his face hardening as he shakes his head. "I can't keep doing this. I need someone I can count on, someone who takes this job seriously."
Anthony swallows, feeling his throat tighten. "Mr. Rossi, I know it hasn't been easy. I'm working with what I have, trying to get here on time and keep up…"
Rossi raises a hand, cutting him off. "Look, I get it, alright? I know you're doing what you can. But this isn't some part-time gig; it's a job with responsibilities. And right now, I can't rely on you. Not with things like this." His voice softens slightly, but there's still a firmness there. "It's just… not enough."
Anthony's shoulders sag, the reality hitting him harder than he'd expected. "So, that's it, then?"
Rossi lets out a long breath, seeming to steady himself. "Yes. I've got a business to run, and if I keep making excuses for you, I'm putting everyone else here at risk. I can't keep carrying you like this."
The words sting, sharper than Anthony anticipated. He knew things had been rough, but he'd hoped his boss might see how hard he was trying, see that he was doing everything he could with what little he had. "I understand," he says quietly, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Thanks… for giving me the chance. For everything."
Rossi's expression softens, and for a moment, a hint of regret flickers in his eyes. "You're a good kid, Anthony. Smart, and you've got potential—I won't deny that. But if you're going to make something of yourself, you need to start showing up, proving that you're ready for more than just scraping by." He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Look, if you need a reference or something, just let me know. I'm still willing to help… just not like this."
Anthony nods, absorbing the weight of the words. "I appreciate it," he murmurs, feeling the sting of disappointment mix with a strange, unexpected relief.
"Take care of yourself, Anthony," Rossi says with a final nod, his tone softening again. "I mean that."
With that, Rossi turns, leaving Anthony standing alone. He lets out a slow breath, feeling the chill of the evening air pressing in around him as he walks back to his car. The old sedan sits waiting, silent and unmoving, as though even it understands the weight of the moment. He slides into the driver's seat, gripping the wheel, and lets his thoughts drift. Fired. The word echoes in his mind, a reminder of the changes he hadn't been ready for, but maybe… maybe he needed.
With a last look at the workshop, he starts the car and drives away, feeling both the weight of his loss and the faintest hint of something else—something new. Maybe it's time to stop settling for 'just enough.'
The road stretches out before him, and Anthony's grip on the steering wheel tightens. Fired. The word still echoes in his mind, stirring a mix of anger, frustration, and bitter disappointment. He presses his foot down on the gas pedal, watching the speedometer climb as his thoughts swirl. The empty highway and the soft hum of the engine feel like the only escape, a brief, reckless freedom from the weight he's been carrying.
With each passing mile, he pushes harder, his old sedan groaning in response as it lurches forward. He knows it's not built for this kind of speed—he knows better than anyone how fragile it is, how close to falling apart. But right now, he doesn't care. The landscape blurs around him, and he takes a deep breath, letting himself feel, just for a moment, the thrill of speed.
Suddenly, his headlights catch the shape of a large truck up ahead, barely moving in the right lane. Anthony's pulse quickens as he approaches. He takes his foot off the gas, instinctively pressing down on the brake.
Panic surges through him as he feels the brakes locked up under his foot, clutching the tires hard. He jerks the wheel, trying to steer away from the truck, but with the wheels locked up he can't do anything.
"Come on! No, no, no!" he yells, his heart racing as he grips the wheel tighter, fear flooding his veins. But it's too late—the sedan skids forward, tires screeching against the pavement as it careens toward the truck.
The sickening crunch of metal crashing into metal shatters the night, and everything goes dark.