Drafts of Death

Rain… oh, graceful rain… Who doesn't enjoy the sound of rain tapping against the bedroom window during a quiet night? Some even claim that sleeping during rainy periods helps the body relax better. Well, who knows! Each person has their own quirks, right?

Speaking of quirks and madness, on that same light rainy night, in a room on the sixteenth floor of one of the residential buildings in the Southern District of Horizon City, there he was—James Thompson. A low-class worker, thirty-five years old, single by choice (well, by the choice of the people that don't want to have James as lover or a companion).

James had a rather average appearance: a hunched posture accentuating his back problems, strong arms from heavy manual labor that demanded more than his limited strength could provide, relatively thin legs, and a round face due to the abuse of calorie-laden fast food. His patchy beard bore evidence of poor genetic inheritance, and his complexion was as pale as any other adult dedicated to the "happy and satisfying" routine of adult life.

You know the drill: waking up at dawn, rushing to get ready, leaving home without eating, squeezing into overcrowded public transportation, always arriving late to work due to heavy traffic, spending the day doing manual labour under abusive target schedules, enduring occasional humiliation from supervisors, and being mistreated by colleagues in the mega-industry where he worked.

James would then consume a dreadful meal during lunchtime, with no time for post-lunch rest because his low-tier employment contract denied him the luxury of a full hour for lunch and relaxation.

But hey, don't feel too sorry for James. He's been diligently working for this megacorporation for thirteen years and is on the verge of meeting several company-set goals that grant employees certain privileges. Among these, James dreams of the most coveted one: having the right to a peaceful hour-long lunch break instead of the frantic ten minutes allotted for hurried eating and returning to work.

Perhaps by the end of this year, James will complete the necessary goal cycle and finally receive that long-awaited perk.

As James toils with the last remnants of his vigor before succumbing to an aneurysm, let's return to the description of his daily routine shall we?.

Well, well, where were we? Ah yes—after his ten minutes, split between five minutes of swallowing as much food as possible from the company tray (without chewing too much) and five minutes to "digest and rest," the rest of James's afternoon passed relatively uneventfully.

A bit more personal humiliation from the new shift colleagues, a dash of subhuman acclimatization and threats from the second-shift superiors, and of course, the usual "jokes" among coworkers—like defecating in James's backpack, stealing his transit card, or slipping dirty underwear into his belongings. Did I mention the rumor that James liked men? Poor James didn't even had a chance with a girl, not to mention with guys, something he disliked.

Of course, not that James hasn't tried to put an end to these antics or filed formal complaints, but to have his grievances addressed, he must complete 150 hours of overtime, and only then will HR formally receive his complaints.

At the end of an exhausting yet productive day, James still clings to the hope of achieving the coveted privilege of a one-hour lunch break.

Despite all adversities, he remains unwavering during his shift. As he finishes work for the day, the sun has long disappeared from the sky. Well, in reality, all that remains are heavily laden clouds in a graphite-gray hue.

The megacorporations have worked their "wonders" on the natural environment, reducing the sun to a mere concept—an image.

Depending on the city one resides in, occasional glimpses of sunlight may peek through the tiny gaps in the swiftly drifting clouds.

At least for those who lived on the lower levels of the city.

The general climate is perpetually cold, and the air not only smells foul but also has a peculiar… "taste." However, James remains unfazed by the lack of sun during his daily commute or the chilly nights under a dark gray sky, nor he was bothered by the awful taste of the air that filled his very lungs. After all, you can't miss something you've never truly had (like an air purification system at home or an apartment high enough to pierce the clouds and behold the floating fireball in the sky), a perk that only the people who had enough money could buy and maintain it.

Once again, James finds himself squeezed into a crowded, suffocating public transport. This time, the diverse and unpleasant odors assault his nostrils, occasionally causing his eyes to water.

At least the journey isn't too long—just a one-hour trip back home due to traffic.

James steps off the public transport, one arm or leg numb, crosses the street, and enters the lobby of his residential building.

Unfortunately, James doesn't earn enough to live above the twenty-fifth floor. All floors below the twenty-sixth lack elevators, featuring only staircases.

James takes a deep breath and repeats the mantra he's been chanting for years: "It's just the sixteenth floor, James. It could be worse—you could be on the twenty-fifth floor, tortured by the sight of your twenty-sixth-floor neighbors using elevators right in front of you every day."

The twenty-sixth-floor residents have elevator access from the lobby to their respective floors. The sole exception is the twenty-fifth floor, where there's a stop for upper-floor residents to descend and deposit their trash in a compartment.

Consequently, the twenty-fifth-floor dwellers endure psychological torment as they watch their neighbors constantly coming and going, enjoying what they can never have.

Physically, they suffer from the unbearable stench emanating from the trash compartment, which is cleaned only once a week.

But let's focus on our hero, known for his unwavering dedication to the megacorporation he works for: JAMES THOMPSON.

After arriving home, he takes a brief shower in an attempt to conserve water—now a precious resource. James then quickly microwaves some pre-packaged food and often falls asleep in his armchair, unable to finish his dinner.