Hey Friend, Don’t forget about me!

"Holy shit…" were the only words James Thompson managed to utter.

An indescribable terror gripped his body, threatening to steal poor James's sanity. The shock was so intense that he could barely move. In fact, James stood there, staring at the Yellow Draft Notebook in his hands.

Nearly a full minute later, James's body trembled, and he found himself reconnected to reality. The cursed Yellow Draft Notebook was there! He had left that damned thing at home, yet somehow, it now rested in his hands.

Before James could even begin to formulate an idea of how the Yellow Draft Notebook had ended up in that room, something more urgent caught his attention.

On the page James held, he had written some rather unkind words about one of his colleagues…

"HOLY SHIT…"

Really, James? Not only do you look like a strange guy, but you also keep repeating the same phrase every time you're emotionally shocked? Why not mix it up with a "What the hell is this?" or an "Oh my God!" for a change?

"Larry, you miserable piece of crap, I really wish you'd stop using those slippery little hands to steal things from your coworkers, a.k.a. my things." – James read and reread what he had just written about Larry, and a brief flashback of what happened to the other three 'victims' of what he wrote in the notebook crossed James's tired and shaken mind.

"My God, no… please, no!" James trembled from head to toe. Glancing around, trying not to lose it completely, he found solace in the only viable idea his mind could conceive.

"I'm going to burn this cursed notebook!" James clutched the Yellow Draft Notebook and hurried over to the mini incinerator. After opening the lid and observing the flames dancing enticingly inside, James looked once more at the accursed thing in his hands and said, "Let's see you come back now, you damned thing." He tossed the notebook into the flames.

For a moment, the flames seemed reluctant to consume the Yellow Draft Notebook, causing every hair on James's body to stand on end. However, before our poor hero could suffer a heart attack, the flames devoured the entire notebook instantly, as if it were soaked in some flammable liquid.

James thanked the heavens that the damned thing had caught fire and convinced himself that it was merely a chemical reaction from the ink on the notebook's hardcover.

After watching the notebook turn to ashes, James returned to his chair and allowed his body to slump into it. As he relaxed, he felt as if a ton of weight had been lifted from his shoulders. James refocused on scribbling and finishing the remaining pages. Despite everything, he remained an exemplary employee.

By the time James completed his final "correction" mantra, some of the megacorporation's lights had already been switched off. James searched for the second-shift supervisor and, unsurprisingly, discovered that the man had already left, leaving James to his own devices.

James retrieved a set of instructions that the second-shift supervisor should have given him and left the department. He walked all the way to the section where he worked, went to his own locker to grab his backpack, checked in on the employee entry and exit board, and happily headed home for some much-needed rest.

Do you really think this would actually happen? We are talking about James Thompson after all!

Sure, sure, everything could have ended peacefully and joyfully, but well… It was James's life, and if there was one thing that never lacked in James's life, it was bad news. Perhaps James could even add a middle name: James "Bad News" Thompson—it would be fitting for the reality James lived in.

When James opened his work locker to retrieve his backpack, it felt like he was opening a portal directly to the darkest corners of hell. Resting on top of James's backpack was a rectangular object with a matte appearance.

The Yellow Draft Notebook was there, as if an old teammate sat on a stool, waiting for James by the exit door to go home together.

"Holy shit…" James muttered, his voice devoid of strength and reasons to keep going, as he stared back at the notebook.

Poor, poor James.