Fiction: Work Is Hell

By Alex Jewell 

Billy Kerr, assistant manager, called me on Saturday morning, bright and early. I knew he hadn’t heard the news — nobody had. He called to tell me I needed to cover Samara’s shift.

“Billy Kerr,” I said irritably, for it was a sunny afternoon and my insides felt like microwaved soup. “I’m on the floor.”

 

“What?”

 

“Billy…I’m dead.”

 

Billy was sympathetic and enquired when that had happened. I explained I had tripped over Tiffany, my fat tabby, and fallen down the stairs. My neck was broken. Billy wondered what had happened to Tiffany. Was she fed? He was relieved to hear that my flat has a cat flap, and she usually likes to flit between my flat and the one next door, greedily seeking meals from both. She wouldn’t starve. Billy said that in light of my death, I wouldn’t need to come to work today. I considered the matter closed.

 

I laid there, with my head and my shoulders at perpendicular angles, listening to pigeons coo on the windowsill. Little buggers. The spikes do nothing. I wondered who would find me first. I should have told Billy Kerr to call someone.

 

My mobile rang again and I awkwardly lifted my head to answer it.

 

“Hello, it’s Sheryl.”

 

Sheryl Wells. Manager.

 

“Hi, Sheryl. Did Billy tell you I’m dead?”

 

He had. Sheryl told me sternly that I hadn’t asked for time off for my death. She said she understood that things happen that can’t be accounted for, but I wasn’t being a team player, and it was very selfish of me. 

 

I told her it might be hard for me to work the shift because my head wasn’t sitting quite level on my neck and my rotting stench could make the customers uncomfortable. She said it’s fine, I can work away from the customers, shifting stock in the back. 

 

But my body was beginning to submit to rigor mortis. Already, my legs had lost sensation and were locking together like LEGO blocks. I wasn’t sure if I would even be able to stand anymore.

 

“You can take breaks, when necessary,” she said. “Now get to work!”

 

I swore at her and disconnected the call. I shouldn’t have mouthed off like that. I’m probably out of a job. But I’m dead now, so who cares?

 

 

 

 

 

Alex Jewell is an emerging author, living in London. When not writing, she's usually studying for her degree or wondering how she would fare in a zombie apocalypse.