Eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. The lab has a city-scape backdrop, I guess to make us forget that we work in a damn bunker, eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. They don't tell me what they're doing with my research, what they intend to do with my work; I have my suspicions.
It's been four years since they let me talk to anyone on the outside: not my wife, my brother, or my kids. A general came in today with a bottle of champagne.
"Boys, I want to congratulate you personally for your hard work. I and the rest of the country thanks you for your achievements."
He smiles and raises his glass. The soft clinking of the skinny glasses drowns out the sound of entire towns being vaporized by my hard work. All I ever want to see is the bottom of a glass.
No comments:
Post a Comment