Fruition 3: "vanessa's lunchbox"
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Once, two years after leaving a |genericjob| I had abhorred, upon comprehending that the grass was no greener - in fact most grass elsewhere had a sallow, post apocalyptic tinge - I swallowed my pride and took up the same post I had left behind.
As it turned out, it was the best decision I've ever made about any employment. I really enjoy my job. It may be |generic| but it's utterly fulfilling.
That's to jump ahead, though .... at the time of my return to the Hellhole As Was, I felt meek and vanquished. Shamefaced in fact. I'd spent two years blaming this |genericjob| for being everything tawdry, demanding and inescapable in my life and now here I walked nonchalantly back into The Pit.
They'd tried to entice me, sway me, reassure me, naturally; but precious little can quieten that small, unfaltering twinge in the depths of our bellies that tells us we've failed.
The first day progressed quickly, but still the twinge crept over my innards.
Back in The Pit. The Hellhole As Was. You didn't excape.
Downhearted, I reached under my desk, to fill - prosaically - my misgivings with food, carbonated drinks, caffeine. It had been my intention to grind up the lunch hour masticating, and leave no pockets of air in which to think.
Reaching down, there were two packs beneath the office desk. One dustier than the other.
It seemed familiar. In the pack was a plastic box, lightly dusted inside with a greenish-black powder - some solids, too.
Realisation slowly dawned. Two years had passed, but the box remained. It was vanessa's lunchbox that had dwelt in The Pit all along, its egg sandwich mouldering alongside my soul's decay, waiting to be reclaimed.