Broken

The ringing of the phone drills on your ears as you patiently wait for it to stop. The rings seem to come in waves, bringing much unwanted noise to your irritated brain. Finally, after a few seconds which seem unbearably slow, the answering machine kicks in. "Donald here. What's the matter with you? You know what we agreed. Show up at the Beauburg at six o'clock if you want a job. And remember to delete this shit!" Don has been complaining about your increasing unreliable behaviour. Fuck him. You stretch out on your bed, which is really just a yellowing mattress in a brass sleigh without any blankets, sheets or pillows.

You stare blankly at the walls of your studio apartment for a while, hands crossed. You don't have to meet Don; you don't need the money that bad. But it might be a good idea to keep the contacts alive, since you haven't been on a job for a while. You cover your face with your crossed arms.