There’s only a little bit of blood left in my veins. It now resides in my eyes. I don’t look in the mirror too much. There’s only so many times I can call in sick. But that phone keeps ringing, and that clock never stops ticking. It’s my fault really. Clocking out doesn’t help. It just means I’ll have to clock back in soon enough.
It’s my eight hours in hell, and my sixteen hours standing at the gates of it.
