Quiet Quitting
Far away, a bell tolled. Finality. It may have been a burial or the sound of an epoch closing. Its deep and sonorous sound shifted the universe at a cellular level. Motivation drifted into coma. And she found she no longer cared.
An echo lingered but the ashes were cold and the thought turned into concrete: ‘I’m almost 52 years old and I don’t want to do this anymore.’ At that instant, the walls closed in and she found herself chained and bound. Moments elongated into eons as the ticking of a clock turned into the ponderous footsteps of an assassin. She was being hunted.
The air was stale. Her words were scratches on a headstone. Her flesh crawled at the odour of decay: ‘If I have to sit through one more data meeting, I’m going to scream.’ She punched the wall until her knuckles bled. The scent of fresh blood was caught by the breeze and hyenas began to circle.
Helplessness becomes necrosis. The jungle is bleached and shrivelled dry. Survival is the only must as the sun’s scorches turn to acid: ‘I’ve been doing this for half a lifetime - and, today, I’m done.’ The whip cracked, slicing through to her bones. The hyenas tore into her raw flesh. Their teeth gleamed white in the light of a waning moon as she was eaten alive by those who’d sworn to protect.
The bells pealed to celebrate a blasphemy and the church doors slammed shut. Darkness enveloped her soul. It clung to her like moss: ‘The only way to end it is to end it.’
So - she quit.