Page 23 of Loathing My Boss
As far as Viktor Bachelor is concerned, I aspire to be a convenient inconvenience. Amilddisturbance in the man’s life. The niggling sensation of self-doubt under his skin.
Contrary to Crimson’s belief, I’m not at risk of murdering him. My hatred isn’t quiet enough for one big act of vindication to quell it. I don’t want to rid the world of those who have wronged me.
No.
I want to watch them suffer. I want justice for the suffering they’ve caused me.
But this was too far.
Physically hurting Viktor in a lasting way like this is not very vigilante of me. Although I am the scum and scourge of the earth, I like to pretend I have a line. It’s just not a very clear line…because I’m certain if in the future Ender drops a dead mouse on Viktor’s pillow and gives him the bubonic plague, I’ll be mentallyfine, unencumbered by moral contingencies.
It wouldn’t matter if I trained the cat to leave him the dead presents. I can’t be held responsible for the wiles and whims of a feline. That’s ridiculous. Cats do what they want. Fully aware of the repercussions.
I mean, come on, my nexttrainingattempt was going to be a Canva Presentation, explaining every pro and con of putting dead mice on or near Viktor’s face while he sleeps. The presentation would include my intentions to provide Fancy Feast rewards for the service, but that would be the extent of my bribery. After delineating the plan via pie charts and graphs, if Ender accepts, I will fully be able to pawn off any subsequent guilt.
Ender made his own educated decisions. Duh.
I am, quite completely, a lunatic.
Viktor halts typing as a breath eases from his lips on the coattails of a swear. “Thank you, Crisis.” He stops my hand, fingers warm against mine. “That…that’s enough. I appreciate you.”
He appreciates me…even though this is entirely, and intentionally, my fault.
Stupid guilt.
Stupid conscience.
The rotten voice in the back of my head saying how Viktor hasn’t been anything but a kind boss to me rears. I hate that voice. It mutters stuff likewhat if he really was just having a bad day when he critiqued your work?and other nonsense along the lines ofhe literally just told you the truth concisely in an email, you sucky bag of meat soup. You’re punishing him for being honest.
Not a fan of that voice at all. Reasonable as I may be, I’m still human, so naturally Ihatewhen my conscience goes against what I want.
“Is there anything else I can do to help you feel better…Viktor?” I ask, softly, tamping down the full-body revolt that occurs in response to feeling his first name on my lips, upon request no less. Disgusting. Truly, utterly, horribly—
Carefully turning, Viktor looks up at me, eyes as gentle as the smile on his face. “No, Crisis. It’ll pass. I’ll do the stretches you sent me while you tell an attendant about the faulty chair.”
The…what?
Blinking out of a daze, which I’m certain isn’t due to witnessing his rare smile, I find my broken chair half stuffed under my desk. Chair. Yep. There it is.
A faulty chair.
I should definitely take care of that.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Excellent plan. I’ll…be back,” and slip from the room.
Chapter 8
?
The night no rest was had.
Viktor
Viktor.
I can’t breathe. I can barely think. I’m sleeping on a dog bed pillow beside the most enchanting—and evil—woman I have ever known.
Lavender. Lavender everywhere. Its oil clings to the sheets, soaking past thepurity wallof pillows between us and coating me in the heavy, thick scent. I thought lavender, canonically, was supposed to help one sleep, but it is doing nothing other than keeping me wide awake.
