“What made you leave your previous job?” the man asks, raising a questioning eyebrow. Behind him, an electric air freshener pumps a spray of scent that burns my sensitive nostrils.

“I was ready for bigger challenges,” I reply, trying not to sneeze. “I’m always on the lookout for new ways to better myself professionally, and I think Happy Seats would be the perfect place to do so.”

Luka, the HR guy, nods with satisfaction. “Well, you’ll find a lot of opportunities here,” he comments. “This is a dynamic work environment, so you’ll definitely have a chance to grow professionally if you want.” That’s just a nice, corporate way of saying we will give you a shitload lot of work that doesn’t fit your job description, but I really need this job. 

“And on a scale of one to five, how would you rate your time management skills?” Luka crosses his fingers in front of him, eyes squeezed in concentration. He thinks he looks cunning, but it just looks like he swallowed a lemon.

“Oh, they’re very good,” I say. “I’m extremely time-conscious.” That’s true—even though I love to daydream, I’m always scrolling through the calendar on my phone, or reading the daily notes in my planner. Time is somewhat crucial for me. 

Luka nods again and scribbles something solemnly in his notebook. From the way his hand moves, I’m pretty sure he’s just drawing squiggles. “Well, that’s heartening to hear,” he concludes. “Good time management is very important for this job.” He purses his lips and leans in. “I will be transparent with you; sometimes—not very often, of course—we have short deadlines and some last-minute changes. And with that, well, we are forced to ask you to work some overtime.” The guy pauses, gauging my reaction, but my face has been a mask of polite smiles since I walked into his office. “Knowing how to handle stress is also desirable,” he continues. “Of course, we do offer mental health support for those who feel the need for it,” he states in a serious voice. “We take burnout very seriously—you just have to knock on my door and I’ll patch you up with some mindfulness techniques.” He winks at me.

The urge to roll my eyes is strong, but instead, I smile, baring all of my teeth in a wide grin. My mom always told me I had a killer smile. 

“That’s good to know,” I answer. “I know how work often is—unplanned things happen and the schedule can be a bit hectic. It’s bound to get stressful sometimes.” I make a short, dramatic pause before I continue. “But what you’re doing here is important, so I guess the hard work pays off, right?”

A spark gleams in Luka’s eyes. It looks like my cheap flattery got through him. “I’m glad you think so,” he says. “You know, most people take what we do here for granted, but what would you do without a good, comfortable toilet seat, am I right?”

“Yes, of course,” I reply earnestly. “Toilet seats are very essential.”

We beam at each other, basking in each other’s toilet seat enthusiasm. “Well then, I think you’ll fit right in,” Luka announces. “Welcome to the company.” 

***

I have a good feeling about this job as I walk through the building door, even though most of the answers I gave him were complete bullshit. The shiny, glass buildings around me glisten in the warm sunshine. There are people around me, dolled up in pretty suits and slicked hair, rushing past me with a leather briefcase in one hand, a coffee in the other. I can’t stop grinning—this is where I belong. The clinking of my stilettos on the asphalt is music for my ears. I don’t miss the soft grass of Zagorje at all. 

***

I don’t feel bad for lying at the interview—as expected, I wasn’t the only one who bent the truth. The vaguely described sales assistant position that I filled is downright exhausting: the workload too extensive and the deadlines impossibly short. The free breakfast they promised consists of rotten fruit, old cheese crackers, and shitty coffee. The “fun-room” is also a sad affair: the table soccer is missing a few rows of its stubby players and the dusty ping-pong table just gave me an itch I couldn’t scratch. The hang-out couch smells like pot and it’s full of mold. Above it a framed poster of a toilet seat proclaims We all sit one seat at a time.

***

As if the #pajamafridays and the forced Monday after-work beers they passed as “company culture” aren’t awful enough, the project manager is horrid and my colleagues back-stabbing and competitive. I’m convinced that Mirela, the manager, made a stellar career in the Spanish Inquisition in her past life. Assigning as many tasks as she can to one person seems to be her favorite pastime. With her cocker spaniel in her arms, she struts around the office in black lacquered heels, with a slicked-up bun, spitting assignments at anyone unfortunate enough to be in her range of vision. 

“New girl, I have another task for you,” she says, “chop, chop.” She likes to snap her fingers in front of people’s faces, puckering her red lips. She tries to make that her thing. Her strong perfume scorches my nose. Thankfully, she never lingers around my cubicle for too long, as her little dog barks at the very sight of me. 

“Stop harassing my dog,” she hisses, “and get back to work.” 

“I’m not doing anything,” I reply helplessly, but she’s already targeting someone else with her wicked assignments. The only thing she’s missing is a leather whip.

***

I make only one work friend, and that’s the stoner guy in the cubicle next to me. “Sup,” he greets me every day. He comes to work with bloodshot eyes and a loopy grin, disappearing every so often to whatever toilet stall is the closest, to “keep the good vibes going”, he explains to me.

Sometimes we chew on some of the stale crackers together, when we both get the munchies. 

***

The HR guy is right about one thing, at least: there really is a chance to move up fast in the company if you have the stomach for it, and through the years, I’ve come to find that I can stomach a lot. I go from a measly Junior 2 position to a well-respected Senior 1 in the span of a few months. I’m telling myself that it’s because I’m really capable and not at all related to the staff shortage we’re experiencing right now. 

My promotion really was in place, seeing as I’m the first one to come and last to go: I never leave work until it’s dark outside. I do the boring paperwork and send out stellar emails. I scroll through our social media and type quirky and relatable posts. Potty humor, obviously. I get on video calls with our suppliers and provide feedback to the design team.

“This could be a bit wider,” I said to the head of the design team, sitting on a new toilet seat we are developing. “We need to be bottom-size inclusive.”

“S’awesome,” said my stoner colleague, wiggling his butt on the seat. “It’s like, the best toilet seat I ever like, sat on.” He just got back from his “bathroom break”. 

Our banter is cut short by Mirela, snapping her fingers at us with silent fury. Once she turns her back on us, I bear my teeth to the dog, just for some fun. He whimpers, hiding his fluffy face in Mirela’s shoulder.

***

When it all becomes a bit too much, I make sure to take a breather in the toilet. Stress can be deadly, I know that. One can only take so many bad toilet puns and exhausting tasks. I sit in the stall and do a visualization technique: I learned it from a girl on YouTube who does mushrooms and braids beads in her hair. She sounded pretty convincing. I shut my eyes and start manifesting the life I wanted to live since I was a kid.

Growing up in a pretty secluded place, I didn’t get to have that much fun other than playing with my brothers in the forest or spending time at family gatherings. One day, though, after a lot of convincing and begging, my dad had finally caved in and bought a television. The signal was shitty, catching only a few programs, but it had quickly become my safe haven. While my brothers were roughhousing outside like a pack of dogs, my eyes used to be glued to the TV screen: I watched all the soap operas and sitcoms I could reach. My only wish for when I grew up was to live in a huge city, have a cute office job, and do whatever pleases me.

The images start flooding in, my dream life unraveling slowly behind my closed eyes. I’m walking around Zagreb, shopping hand in hand with a group of girlfriends. Naturally, I’m dressed in pretty clothes and my body hair is tamed. I’m one of the girls, just like any other. Life can’t get any better.

The girl in the video said to breathe deeply for maximum results, but I skip that: the smell of urinal cake makes me nauseous, and sometimes, the stoner guy smokes in the stall next to me and I get unintentionally high. I need my head clear. The life I imagined for myself is so close: I just have to keep on track and push through. This job makes me pretty miserable, but it’s the only way to get away from my boring life back home.

At the end of my session, I flick through my planner and make some affirmative notes before I track my monthly obligations. I make sure to track my cycle with care. A guttural groan escapes my lips as I muster up the strength to go back to my cubicle. 

At least the toilet seats are really comfortable. We do make them superb. 

***

The money’s good. It’s getting more and more stressful at work, but I can at least afford to live in the city. My vision is slowly starting to piece itself together: I prance around Zagreb like the financially independent woman that I am, spending my money on things I like. I’m living the dream.

After months of hard work, it’s high time for some pampering—my shopping spree finished, I stop by the best hair salon in town. With my hair freshly straightened and balayaged, I head to the beauty salon. I’m feeling gorgeous and invincible.

“Oh, gosh,” says the technician as I drop my pants. “Anita,” she shouts, “prepare more sugar wax!” 

“Yeah, I know—” I nod at her emphatically as she’s kneading the wax between her palms, bracing herself for some heavy work “—it runs in the family.”

Sparkly manicures are also becoming an obligatory monthly expense. My nail lady isn’t always as happy to see me as I’m happy to see her, though.

“Your nails are extremely sturdy,” she mutters with frustration, breaking the third nail file on my nails.

I smile apologetically. “I have an excellent calcium intake.”

That’s a blatant lie, though, as I’ve been slacking in the food department since I’ve moved to Zagreb. My nutrition consists mostly of cheap instant noodles and greasy bureks, and occasionally some chicken wings and liver. Building a cute wardrobe isn’t easy or economical, so I cut costs where I can. Once a month, though, I make sure to treat myself to some steak to satisfy my cravings. 

***

Every weekend I visit some bars and enjoy the city bustle. I love the noises, the people, the colors. It wasn’t like that in the woods. With a delicious cocktail in hand, I scan the crowd, looking for some fun. I barely had any friends outside of my family back home, let alone someone to date, so it’s high time to rectify that.

“You’re very strong, huh?” says a guy to me as I hoist him up on my kitchen table. “I work out,” I tell him, ripping his shirt. 

“You’re very bitey,” says a girl to me another time, assessing the hickey I left on her neck with a smirk. 

“That’s the first time I heard that.” I bat my eyelashes innocently, pulling her back into the bed. I lie to many more people like that, but I don’t really feel guilty. I’m having the time of my life.

***

I have a busy schedule, but I need to take it easy, sometimes. Once a month, my phone alarm rings at 6 PM sharp and I excuse myself from work. My stoner colleague nods in sympathy.

“Cramps are a bitch, right?” he says to me. “I have a sister,” he continues, “so I sympathize with what you’re, like, going through.”

I thank him as I hit the snooze button on my alarm, silencing the guitar strums that have been filling up the place. 

“Nice tunes,” he adds as I salute him goodbye. “I fucking love Creedence Clearwater Revival.”

I go home and make myself a few steaks for dinner. After I’m full, I shut the blinds and hide all of my new designer things in the closet. I do some light stretching to ease the pain that’s starting to strum through my body and turn the music up. Finally, I double-check the locks on the door and get the chains before I lay on my bed, cursing my monthlies.

***

My parents call me once a week to check up on me. I tell them I’m doing good, drumming my long, hot pink nails on the table and admiring my silky hair in the vanity mirror on my table. 

“Your head can be up in the clouds, honey,” my mom says. “We just worry. Are you eating enough? You know that you have to eat a lot more than others.”

I hate it when she talks like that, like we’re that different from everyone else. Grudges I hold against my parents resurface every time they call: the isolation, the homeschooling, the overbearing behavior; the shitty house that’s been in the family for generations, and countless hand-me-downs from my brothers. We only want the best for you, sweetie, they said, and trained me like a dog to always stay close. I’m not an animal, though—I want my own life, full of shiny and expensive things, just like the girls on TV.

“It’s fine, mom, you don’t have to worry,” I assure her with annoyance. “I eat plenty.” My traitorous stomach growls at that very exact moment, having been fed only chicken liver and rice crackers for the past few days. I take my new bubble gum lip gloss and glide it across my lips.

“You have to take it easy, pup,” says my dad, “you know that our family doesn’t handle stress productively.” I can hear my brothers shouting in the background like some pack of feral dogs. I’m so glad I’m a classy city girl now, far away from their stupid shenanigans.

“You’re father’s right, honey,” my mother chimes in. “Please take care of yourself.”

“I know, I know,” I say, blowing a kiss to the mirror with shiny lips. “It won’t be like last time, I promise.”

***

Months go by quickly—spring turns into summer, which turns into autumn in the blink of an eye. My mood sours as I grieve the sunshine and the heat. I pout at the big windows, thick fog making it hard to see anything. The weather’s been wet and moody for a week now, reminding me too much of Zagorje. I should be working, because the week’s been busy—that kind of busy where there’s an urgent task on top of an urgent task on top of a more urgent task, but I can barely keep my eyes open. Mirela’s been poking me with her invisible prongs more than usual.

“Diamonds are made under pressure, new girl,” she said to me earlier today. The sound of her snapping fingers echoed in my ears long after she left my cubicle. 

I feel miserable. There’s tension in my body that I can’t quite shake off. I slave at the computer for hours, typing and writing and scheduling. There’s a constant feeling like I forgot something at the back of my head, but I can’t think of anything that’s not related to checking off tasks on my to-do list right now. I don’t even get a chance to take my bathroom break and scroll through my planner.

Around 3 PM, the stoner guy pokes his head above the cubicle wall. “You should take a nap,” he says, offering me some of his chips, “you look like shit.” I take a handful and chew like an animal. I didn’t realize I was this hungry. 

About an hour later, I actually decide to listen to his advice, as the numbers start dancing in front of my eyes. 

“Wake me up in half an hour, alright?” I call out, resting my head on the desk.

“Sure,” the stoner guy replies. I can hear the rustling of his tobacco bag. “I’ll wake you up after my bathroom break.” 

I fall asleep to the sound of the rain outside, licking the salty chips dust from my lips.

***

Noise wakes me up from a deep sleep. I wipe the dried-up drool from my chin and groan. It’s dark in the office—it seems like everybody’s gone home. “I’ll wake you up after my bathroom break,” I murmur mockingly to myself. “Ugh, what a fucking shithead.” I click at my computer and wince my eyes in pain as it flashes brightly at me. 11:57 PM. Great. Only one task is left, but that sales proposal will have to wait until tomorrow.

Frustrated, I try to find my phone in the dark so I can shut down the alarm, but it’s taking me forever, as I’m still feeling half asleep. A wave of irritation hits me before I finally locate my phone and turn the alarm off: after all that ruckus, it leaves an eerie silence in its wake. The only sound that’s left is my stomach growling with hunger. 

Then the realization hit me. The tunes of Bad Moon Rising have been filling the empty office for the last few hours.

“Oh shit,” I say to myself. Oh shit, shit, shit. 

I run through the cubicles. I thank whatever deity’s out there for the fog and clouds currently obstructing the night sky. That should buy me a few minutes, but I can feel the pressure under my skin itching to get out. My safest bet is the elevator. Maybe, once I barricade myself in the elevator until the morning, I won’t trash the office completely. 

I bang at the elevator button frantically with a hairy arm. How the hell did I manage to forget about this? Fucking emails and proposals and Mirela’s goddamn snapping—I try to breathe deeply to calm down, but the thoughts keep rushing through my head. Agitated, I smack the button once more. Goddamn it, what’s taking it so long?

Just as I consider running to the staircase, the elevator opens, revealing Mirela and Luka, the HR guy, in a very compromising situation. I automatically take a step back into the shadows of the hallway.

“Uh, this isn’t what it looks like,” Luka says, pulling his pants up.

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Luka,” hisses Mirela, picking up her panties from the floor. “You’re such a fucking moron.”

A growl escapes my lips—I can’t fucking deal with this now. My stomach gags as I feel my natural nails pushing at my expensive gel manicure. I only got it a few days ago, and now it’s ruined; how had I been so stressed out I forgot to track my monthly hissy fit?

“Run,” I try to say, but it comes out as a choked snarl. 

Mirela huffs. “New girl, what the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“She’s probably processing, honey,” Luka says. “I learned about that in college.”

I don’t have the vocal capacity to dispute his shitty attempt at psychoanalyzing me anymore: my canines are dropping and my vocal cords lowering. I retreat further into the dark hallway. My blood feels like boiling over as my muscles start clenching painfully. With the last ounce of strength and willpower I have left, I turn around and head to the staircase, while I’m still somewhat in control.

“Hey,” Mirela’s voice pierces my ears as I’m halfway there. “Since you’re already here, how about you send out that sales proposal?” she yells, and I know there’s no turning back now.

A ray of moonlight hits my face. The snap of Mirela’s fingers is pounding at my head. The clouds move, revealing a bright, round full moon, huge and mighty in the sky. No visualization or breathing techniques will help me now. I can hear my clothes ripping at their seams. Fuck, I thought to myself, growling and growing and salivating. I really liked this blouse. 

***

It’s still dark when I wake up. A satisfied groan escapes my lips as I stretch—my belly hasn’t been so full in months. I groan again, though, once I see the mess I made a few hours ago. I put on my ripped blouse and stained skirt and flush what’s left of Luka and Mirela down the toilet, making sure to wipe the seat carefully. I owe the company at least that much, now that they’re going to be three employees short.

I’m scrubbing the dried-up blood from my hands as I hear a cough from one of the bathroom stalls. A stall door opens and the stoner guy peeks out his head.

He stares at me in silence, taking in the bloody toilet paper I showed in the trash bin and the meaty gunk matted in my hair. I stare right back at him, noting his glassy eyes and sleep marks on his face.

“You’re dreaming,” I croak, breaking the silence, “you smoked way too much. Go back to sleep.” My throat is still raw from last night’s exertion.

“Hell yeah, man,” he says, stumbling back into his stall. “Goodnight.”

I silently bid him farewell and go to retrieve the security camera footage. 

***

As I slip out of the building, I text my parents. I hate that I’m coming home with my tail between my legs, just like the last time.

I sigh, looking at my—now former—workplace. So many hours of hard labor were spent, only to end up a bloody mess. I’m going to miss it, even though it turned out to be too stressful in the end, but most of all, I’m going to miss my polished city girl persona. Making new IDs is such a hassle. I look at the tall, shiny buildings one last time, my chest seizing with sadness. It seems that the corporate lifestyle is not for me after all. 

Or maybe I’ll try again, once I refine my time management skills a little bit more. Third time’s the charm.

---

Time Management © 2024. Ivana Geček

[EN] Ivana Geček is a writer and comic artist currently based in Varaždin, Croatia. Horror, dark fantasy and satire inspired by folklore are her bread and butter. In her spare time she likes to read about cryptids, pick at the banjo, and watch good and bad horror movies.

The story Time Management was originally published in the Morina kutija, no. 6 (siječanj, 2024). You can download it for free from our site or Smashwords.

[HR] Ivana Geček je spisateljica i strip autorica koja trenutno živi u Varaždinu. Glavni interesi su joj horor, mračna fantastika i satira inspirirana s folklorom. U slobodno vrijeme voli čitati o kriptidima, svirati bendžo i gledati dobre i loše hororce.

Priča Time Management objavljena je u online časopisu Morina kutija, br. 6 (siječanj, 2024.). Časopis možete skinuti ovdje ili s platforme Smashwords.

---

Urednički komentar: Ne može se pogriješiti s korporativnim humorom i Ivana nam u ovoj priči zbilja briljira. Balansira ono realno, a apsurdno u korporativnom poslu, stresno i umarajuće, kontrastirajući seoski život i gradsku vrevu, a kao šećer na kraju, sve nam je to upakirano u ruhu urbane fantastike sa žličicom horora.