Drag Me Down

I stepped into my apartment, grabbing my earbuds. After dealing with my mortal enemy from work, I needed a break. Connecting the earbuds to my phone, I turned the music loud. My LED lights came to life, dancing with the rhythm of the music. A bit childish, but inside I still feel like a kid, even at 22. Though stress, especially from work, makes me feel older. That stress has a name. Trace Parker. From the beginning of starting work with the newspaper, he's been awful. He's the worst part of my job, even worse than Carlee McNeill, and her daily anger bursts. Something about Trace gets to me. And not in a good way. Instead of referring to me by my name, Christine Wexler, he calls me Cutie. No, not like I'm cute. Cutie, as in those miniature oranges. Because he hates them. Also, because they're short, apparently like me. I sunk into the sound of my music. The sky outside had grown dark. I started the coffee maker since the coffee at work had somehow been spilled all over me. Because of Trace. I uttered a frustrated sound, and my cat turned toward me, startled. "Sorry," I told her. "I'm just frustrated." My cat seemed to understand and curled next to me as I sat on my bed with my coffee. I must have gone to sleep, because I woke the next morning with my coffee next to me. And me in my clothes from the night before. I rolled out of bed, nudging my cat, who gave me an annoyed look. My music was still playing from last night, a One Direction song. The day seemed as if it was off to a good start. I found one of my favorite outfits and quickly done my skincare. Singing along to Drag Me Down, I relaxed. Momentarily, life wasn't too bad. As I went to my car, I saw things being carried into the next-door apartment. Huh, I wonder who's moving in. Arriving at work, I didn't see Trace's black Mustang. Maybe he wasn't coming in today. Hopefully not. Maybelline greeted me as I walked inside. "You look well-rested." She stated. "I feel great for once!" I told her honestly. I started in on work, and that's when my bad mood walked through the door. Well, actually, it was Trace. I ground my teeth and tried to ignore him, but he wasn't having it. "Morning, Cutie. What's with the heels? You're still short, even with them." I rolled my eyes. So childish of him. Trace isn't tall. He isn't short either, but somehow, he's still 8 inches taller than me. "Trace, if you're looking for someone to annoy, go somewhere else. I'm busy!" I told him without looking from my work. "Aw, c'mon Cutie. No one else gets annoyed at me like you do. Everyone else around here likes me." I glanced up. He was standing near, leaning against the desk, smirking. "Yeah. Everyone likes you because they see your nice side. Me? I see how you really are." I determined, trying to sound unphased. "That really what you think, Cutie?" He asked, leaning further over the desk. "Stop. Calling. Me. That." I managed through gritted teeth. He blew out a laugh. "So tell me, what happens if I don't?" He asked. How arrogant. Maybe I should calm down. When I came up short for an answer, he grinned and walked to his side of the room. Why? Why did I have to be the one to share an office with him? And the real question, why did I find him so frustrating? "You know," Trace interrupted my thoughts. "I'll think about calling you Christine." "Wow. I'm shocked you actually know my name." I muttered sarcastically. He looked across the room, his blue eyes briefly meeting mine. "Well, at least I didn't hate you from the beginning. You definitely hated me from the start." He wasn't wrong. The first time that I had met him, he'd insinuated that I couldn't do my job well. "Just let me do my work." I told him with an exasperated sigh. "Oh, am I distracting you?" He asked, smug look in place. "No." I ground out. I flipped through paperwork, trying to do my job as quickly as possible. My phone rang, and I answered, glad for a distraction. "Christine." It was my sister, Ashley. But her voice...it didn't sound right. "What's wrong?" I asked quickly, the silence making me nervous. "There was an accident at dad's factory," She said, her voice trembling. "Ashley. Tell me." I demanded frantically. "Something fell from a top shelf. He... was nearby. Christine, he-" her voice broke off. My hands were shaking. I felt sick. "Ash. Is..he-" My voice wouldn't continue. Ashley burst into tears. "The ambulance came, but... it was too late, Christine." Everything was spinning. No. This couldn't be true. No. I felt sweaty and sick. Then, everything faded into darkness. I came to with the horrible realization of my fathers' death. "No." I tried to yell, but it came out merely a whisper. "Christine." A serious voice sounded from above. I looked up. Trace. I couldn't cry. I couldn't feel. He must have lifted me to my chair when I passed out. He handed me a water bottle. "I have to leave." I somehow kept a steady voice as I talked, but words seemed foreign. "I'm driving you home." I couldn't even protest as I followed Trace to his car. The days drug past. I couldn't cry. My dad hadn't wanted a funeral. I slept for days on end. Not knowing how to deal with this empty, numb feeling. I had been off work for a week. I had to go back. I forced myself to work. I went in emotionless. Went to my desk. Started working. My boss walked in after a couple of hours. I hadn't realized the time. It was dark outside. My boss tried to talk, tried to apologize for my loss. I shook it off, trying to escape quickly. As I walked out of the building, a girl ride past on a bike. A light pink bike, basket decorated in flowers. I couldn't move. It was an exact replica of my childhood bicycle. From my dad. He got it for my 10th birthday, taught me how to ride. Then, that was it. I could feel. An awful, aching sorrow washed over me. Tears were cascading down my face. Faster and faster they came. I couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe he was gone. I was crying too hard to notice Trace next to me. He lightly steered me toward my car, his hand on my arm.