Copyright © 2006, 2007 by Mitchell Allen
As I walked briskly along the corridor, no longer hindered by the poor lighting, I pondered the cruel fates that had restored my vision. My thoughts were clearer than ever; nowadays, the only mind I could seem to read was my own. I cursed the hit-and-run accident that undid the wonderful head injury I had “suffered” playing rugby at university years ago.
Through weakly myopic eyes, I could just make out the smug sneers of my erstwhile humble colleagues, none of whom bothered to speak. Who could blame them? Ninety days ago, it was I who arrogantly shuffled through their presence, hurling epithets in response to the continuous telepathic waves pounding the shores of my mind.
“Smith, that syphilitic whore you entertained in your car last night left more than lipstick as a remembrance of your tryst!”
“Ah, Mathers, wait until accounting discovers that creative ‘legerdemain’ you cooked up yesterday.”
“Is that you, Jenkins? What will hubby think of you and Lizzy snogging in the restroom?”
“Look lively, mates! The guv is coming up the lift, now!”
What kind of axe would I wield, now? What chance would I have of outperforming the Director, thus ensuring my carefully planned ascension to the pinnacle of Fleet Financial Securities, Ltd.? The shareholders had enjoyed an unprecedented run-up on their stock. I had provided that. Effortlessly. Until now.
I turned the corner, walked into the office and contemplated yet another dreary day of poring through the company’s memoranda, spreadsheets and policy manuals.
How thoughtless. How utterly calm and empty my head had become.