MIA
At 5:00 a.m., a painful hour, the harsh alarm woke me up, but it was vital to make sure I was on time for my first day at Kennedy Inc. My wrist bruises, a painful memory of being bound, and my head, which was still throbbing from the previous night's torture, highlighted the bleak turn my life had taken. I winced as I ran a hand through my knotted hair, feeling the burden of the contract I had signed. The fatigue and bruises weren't the only things that persisted. It was the burden of realising that I had traded my independence for a living. More than just a job, this internship was my lifeline and the only way I could begin to pay back the mountain of debts my father had left behind. I had to show everyone, myself included, that I could escape the bonds that held me back. I forced the thoughts out of my mind. I had to take advantage of this opportunity at Kennedy Inc. It was my only chance to start paying off the debts my father had left behind and, with any luck, to get out of the mafia's clutches. The shared bathroom in the guest house was a place of no solace: a flickering fluorescent light, a broken mirror and freezing water.
It was broken but clinging somehow to the wall almost symbolic. I got to Kennedy Inc. at precisely seven in the morning. I lived in a drab guest house, but the tall skyscraper, with its reflected glass, shone in the morning sun. As I entered the foyer, with its immaculate and towering marble floors, my heart raced. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and polished wood was almost too rich to breathe. As I walked across the floor, my scuffed sneakers made a loud echo, making me feel uncomfortable. The receptionist, with a strained smile, handed me a temporary badge and sent me to the elevator. "Twenty-seventh floor," she remarked crisply, scarcely sparing me a second glance. The mood changed on the 27th floor: exact, chilly, and buzzing with activity. Since I was assigned to the marketing department as an intern, I was determined to make a good impression. "Mia Trump?" A sharp voice called out to me, pointing out a woman in her early 30s wearing a fitted navy blue suit. Her dark hair was pulled back tightly, and her critical eyes evaluated me as if I were a project in dire need of refinement. "Yes, that's me," I said, steadying my voice, "I'm Samantha. You'll report to me during your internship. Follow me." Without waiting for a response, she turned and briskly walked down the hallway, and I hurried after her, feeling like a stray dog being led by an uncaring owner. The open-plan office was bustling with activity, with staff members typing frantically or whispering strategic talks. I followed Samantha to a lonely workstation in the distant corner. It was tiny, hidden away as though to hide me. "This is your desk," she remarked abruptly. The organisation has high expectations, and interns must meet them. We will not put up with laziness. Do you understand? "Yes, ma'am," I blurted out in a hurry before I could question my response. She gave me a pile of documents. By the end of the day, compile these into a report by sorting, analysing, and summarising. Keep in mind that you are at the bottom of this hierarchy. You are not owed any kindness. I nodded after taking a deep breath. I reminded myself that although this wasn't the kind of response I had hoped for, it was a first step to better opportunities. As I worked, the whispers started: "Is that the new intern?" "She doesn't fit in here." "She'll never last a week." I ignored the comments and concentrated on the files, but they kept coming, louder every hour. Their words stuck to me like static, each snicker a needle to my already fraying nerves. At lunch, I sat alone in the break room, eating a sandwich I had made the night before, when two women came in, laughing loudly. "Is that your lunch?" one woman asked, glancing at my sandwich. "Uh, yes…" I stammered, startled. The other sned. "No wonder you look so bland. Maybe if you fed on decent food, you'd look presentable. How Embarrassing". I remained silent. I was unable to afford anything more than necessities. The afternoon went on forever, with every second of the clock serving as a reminder of my mounting exhaustion. Samantha came back to assess my development, her disapproving face piercing. She pointed to my notes and said, "This is sloppy." "Redo it." I started to say, "But I—" but her stare interrupted me. "No justifications. Start again. As she left, her heels tapping forcefully on the shiny floor, I fought back tears. When I unintentionally spilt coffee on a file, it was the final straw. I was frantically cleaning it when a male coworker spotted it and loudly made fun of my error. He said, "Looks like we've got a klutz in the office!" and the whole room burst out laughing. My cheeks became red. My skin is prickling with the fire of embarrassment. I wanted to disappear, to fade into obscurity. I gathered my belongings as the clock hit 6:00 p.m., my hands shaking with exhaustion and shame. Samantha and I were the only people on the lift. With a cold tone, she replied, "Miss Trump, you're here to prove yourself, not to embarrass us," as the doors closed. Tell me if you can't take the strain so we can find someone else to take your place. Even though her words hurt, I forced myself to nod. I whispered, "I'll perform better tomorrow," but uncertainty gnawed at the edges of my determination. Her quiet pierced harder than words, and she said nothing more. Going back to the guest home, I flopped down on the flimsy mattress and gazed at the broken ceiling.
Every moment was replayed in my head, and the weight of the day weighed heavily on me. In one day, I had been the target of mockery, condescension, and plain hatred. Had I come here for the wrong reason? I felt confined and suffocated by the humiliation at work and the threats from the mafia. However, when I closed my eyes, I saw my mother lying in her hospital bed. I reflected on the obligations I had and my vow to live no matter what. I shifted, holding the blanket tighter around my shoulders as the mattress creaked under me. There would be another battle tomorrow, another opportunity to show that I belonged, even if no one else did. Suddenly, there's a sound similar to footsteps. I sit up immediately, clutching my blanket tighter around myself wondering what would happen next.