Of course, I figured magic out. I am fucking amazing.

                                                                                                                - Rebecca Wu

Alex had left work early to tend to his hand, which was now broken, apparently. I was fuming because Chad had assigned Alex's part of the presentation to me. At that moment, I seriously hated Alex almost as much as I hated the rest of humanity.

Almost.

I had been plugging away at my laptop for 3 hours straight with no end in sight. Occasionally, I threw sharpened pencils at the empty tack board in my cubicle for fun. My cubicle was an ugly, gray box opening up into a sea of boxes on the basement floor.

I had such an ugly cubicle, not that any cubicle is inherently beautiful. They are pieces of plywood covered in felt.

My coworkers decorated their spaces with knick-knacks to remind themselves of home. Stevie had pictures of their children. Vicki had figurines of cartoon characters. Brenda had a collection of ironic coffee mugs (the worst). Sheila had cat toys. Lots and lots of cats.

I’m not cuddly like that.

My stuff was at home where it should be, and my work files were neatly organized into hundreds of encrypted folders and subfolders on my computer’s hard drive.

I didn't like clutter. I failed to see how someone could work effectively when they were disorganized.

People who claim they can are idiots.

My neighbor Sheila was one such idiot. She was an annoying, middle-aged white woman that always managed to get on my nerves.

Her cubicle was overflowing with paper. Actual physical, dead tree paper. In 2014, no less, and they weren't orderly stacks either. The piles were crumpled and stained, separated with post-it notes that read “important” or “see later.”

Her email etiquette was abysmal. She stupidly left her computer exposed whenever she was away from her cubicle, and even from a passing glance, I could tell she didn't organize her old emails into folders.

I had had more than a passing glance, of course, but that wasn’t the point. It was the principle of the matter. A person that doesn’t password lock her computer is begging to be hacked.

The most irritating aspect of her personality, though, was her laugh. Sheila spent most of her work hours gossiping about clients, and coworkers when the rest of us were trying to work. She responded to the salacious comments of her confidants with a cackle she refused to censor, ever.

“OMG,” laughed Sheila.

“Hey Sheila, ” I said, trying to keep a level tone. “I have a lot of work to do. Can you take your call elsewhere?”

“Sure thing, Rebecca,” she said nodding.

She then walked three feet away.

“I keep telling you, if Chad seems uninterested in your work, you shouldn't complain. That’ll make you look bad. You need to just work harder.”

Normally, Sheila’s ditzy crusade to set feminism back 40 years wouldn't bother me. I would just put on my headphones and listen to my “Fuck the Patriarchy” playlist until the bad thoughts subsided.

That wouldn't work today, however, because I wanted to murder Chad for giving me Alex’s work. I wanted to murder Alex too, but less gruesomely. I wanted to murder everyone, really, but if I couldn't kill Chad or give Alex a serious tongue-lashing, then chatty Sheila would have to do.

“Sheila, ” I shouted. “Take your damn call somewhere else.”

Silence. She either hadn’t heard me or was actively ignoring me.

“No...he didn't,” gasped Sheila. Her false enthusiasm baited the person on the other line for more information. “Ah huh. Ah huh. Well, I always said he was like that. Oh my! Vicki, you are so bad,” she laughed loudly.

I made a fist, and vividly imagined how satisfying it would be to decapitate one of the many cat, stuffed animals on Sheila’s desk. Her favorite was a pink cat she lovingly referred to as Mr. Whiskers. It would be the third one she had lost this year — the other two I had lit on fire.

Privately, that is. I’m not a fucking sociopath.

Oh, the fun I could have with Mr. Whiskers.

Chad would probably yell at me for it, however, and burning Mr. Whiskers to a charred pile of synthetic fibers and wool would do very little in the Shutting-Sheila-the-fuck-up Department. She’d probably gossip about it in front of me, three feet away.

Damn it, Alex, why did you leave me here with all these awful people? If you were here, then at least we could mock her together.

“Did he really,” giggled Sheila. “I keep telling you…”

That's it. I thought bitterly.

I stood up. I was going to ask her to shut the fuck up, and if that didn't work, then I would light Mr. Whiskers on fire. I was so angry. People had always said I was an angry, “difficult” person -- those sexist motherfuckers. But now, 40 minutes away from a very important presentation, and the only person in the office left working on it, I was furious.

Fuck Sheila.

Lightly fuck Alex.

Fuck Chad hard with a 15-inch strapon.

And most importantly, fuck an office culture that leaves the only brown woman to do all the fucking work. I am in HR, not Finance. I literally have better things to do than this.

It was in that moment of rage that Sheila’s computer broke down. The screen went black, and smoke sizzled out of the keyboard. It was like watching a message self-destruct in Mission Impossible.

Sheila gasped.

“Vicki you'll never believe what just happened!” she said, excited to share a new piece of misfortune.

“That laptop looks wrecked.”

I almost jumped 3 feet up at the sudden voice behind me.

“You have to be more careful about using your powers in front of mortals, ” the voice continued.

I looked up from my computer to see a tall woman wearing a fitted, black blazer, and a stern expression. Her blue eyes stared at me unblinking, waiting for an answer.

A short, stout man, presumably her assistant, stood beside her as he typed notes into his smartphone.

I was still angry, but this woman’s face looked like she had power, and wasn’t afraid to use it. I took a small breath.

“Sorry, I don’t think we've met,” I responded cautiously.

“Director Jennifer Smith. Director Smith is fine.” She said, offering her hand, which surprised me. I took it, instinctively, and she shook my hand with a powerful grip.

I squeezed harder.

“Rebecca Wu, senior HR associate on this floor,” I responded.

“Peachy, now, why were you using a level 2 spell on a mortal-designated floor?” Director Smith demanded.

This woman was fucking crazy, I thought.

Fun; I could work with crazy.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” I said, my voice building in anticipation of a fight. “But I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Excuse me? Are you trying to tell me that you didn't just fry that computer, senior associate?” The director said coldly.

Her assistant’s eyes widened. “I don’t think she’s listed,” he said, shocked, holding his phone’s screen out for the director to see.

“Interesting. Well, senior associate Wu, it appears I am mistaken, and that doesn’t happen too often so savor it. You are getting a promotion.”

Director Smith then snapped her fingers and we were suddenly, and instantaneously somewhere else.