Betweensobs, I tried to describe the dream I'd had about my fifth birthday party.Even though it had been a dream, most of it was just like what had happenedon that day. When I got to the nightmare part and told her about what myfather had done, it brought back up all anger I felt towards him andreminded me of why I was afraid of him. I got to a point where there were more sobs than words and stopped tryingto speak. Aunt Joan held me close and made soft, comforting sounds. Whatwas making me cry the most was the sense of loss. My father, the man whohad loved me and was always there to protect me, had disappeared the day hesaw me in the dress Aunt Marie had given me for my birthday. While he hadnever hit me again, he also barely touched me after that day.Eventually, I had no more tears, just a deep ache. I was still snifflingwhen I realized where a faint but painfully familiar stink had been comingfrom. "Aunt Joan, I think I ...." Sh sh shhhh, we'll take care of that in a moment." Aunt. Like every large firm these days, this illustrious company has a drugs policy (i.e. you have to be on them to be in management). Every year, each department has to attend a non-exemption lecture on the evils of drugs and how they make turning up for work on a Monday morning bearable and improve productivity, or something. To be honest, unless they are giving out free samples, I'm not interested.My desk is a depressing sight. There used to be furry things on springs stuck on the monitor, a calendar of naked men in distracting poses, a large expanse of desk, and a keyboard you could do surgery on. Now? I think the furry things committed life by jumping out of one of the windows; the calendar was removed for being offensive (?) (Though I still have August... ), the desk is still there somewhere and you could do an autopsy on the keyboard, though the lettering on the ctrl alt del keys has long been worn off.So off we all trooped to the conference room for a sleep. It was everything we had.
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