Request Denied

Reading the email for the third time, she still couldn’t quite fully believe what she was reading… What was this? Some kind of joke? Surely it couldn’t be serious… Please, she thought, let it be a joke… An off beat and badly landing joke would be easier to comprehend than the notion that the words were written in earnestness… She read the words several more times until memorised… Speaking them out loud, voiced into the air, the words  sounded gravid, heavy with a  latent threat… The first three words like the dull thud of a metronome setting the beat… It was those first three words that she returned to time and time again. The sentences that followed wreaked of ridiculousness, absurdity, arrogance, and pomposity. Carefully crafted dross, the pseudo politeness failing to fully mask the stench of wrath seeping through, it brought her to laughter… Why couldn’t they just be honest and own their anger? Own their annoyance that they had not been given what they felt entitled to? Always this bullshit pretence of loving loveliness… All those clever words, a crafted gilted cage for rage untold, not allowed to unfold and shatter the illusion of playing a poor victim. She shook her head and imagined the typed words dislodging from her mind and flying free away from her like watery droplets flung by the shakes of a soggy dog… She laughed again, the written version so far removed from her recollection of events that it was obvious that someone somewhere had lost the plot…

Her mind drifted and she recalled the story of The Little Red Hen… Aged 4, she had instantly resonated with the hen, not knowing nor needing to know why. Forty plus years on, she felt that resonance return but now accompanied by understanding… A friend’s words from a few weeks earlier echoed through… Oh! They want a 95:95 split! You do 95% of the work and they take 95% of the credit… She wondered why she’d been so dumb for so long…

She looked back to the email… Those first three words… She could could shrug off the entirety of the following words but those three stuck thorn like…

I would prefer

Really? There were many things that she herself would have preferred both now and before now. She let out a weary sigh… I would prefer I would prefer I would prefer… Yes, I’m sure you would, she thought… Again she sighed, her thoughts interrupted by music from the radio Silence is golden… Nope! Silence is secrecy, subjugation… surrender… The flame of defiance flickered, sparked bright somewhere deep inside of her… It felt tiny and as though it could easily go out, the thought of it extinguishing made it burn harder. She was not 4 any more! She resolved to tend to its needs. There had been very few times in her life where she had felt fully decisive in what she must do next. Now she felt lucid. She knew with no uncertainty that she would tolerate no longer any attempts to suppress her speaking her story. Devoid of doubt, she resolved to sing her song…

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