The Withdrawal

Mara dragged Elias into the copy room and locked the door. She slid down the wall, clutching her purse.

She reached for a mini-vodka. Her hand was shaking so badly she couldn't open the cap.

"You offered them up," Elias whispered. He was crying. "You're going to give him everyone."

"I saved you, didn't I?" Mara snapped, throwing the bottle across the room. It shattered.

"You didn't save me. You just postponed me." Elias looked at her with a look of pure pity. "You really are dead inside, aren't you? Kael was right. You're just like him. Just a different kind of monster."

Mara stared at the spilled vodka soaking into the carpet. The smell filled the small room.

* Dead inside.*

She thought about Gary. She thought about Sarah. She thought about the last five years of her life—firing people, drinking to forget their faces, waking up alone, doing it all again.

She looked at Elias. He was the only person who remembered her birthday. He was the only one who knew how she took her coffee.

The shakes hit her hard. Withdrawal. Or maybe it was just conscience.

"I'm out of booze," Mara whispered.

"Good," Elias said. "Maybe you'll finally see what you're doing."

Mara closed her eyes. The fog in her brain was lifting, replaced by a sharp, agonizing clarity. She was the VP of Human Capital. And for the first time in her career, she realized that human capital wasn't a resource to be spent. It was people.

"We're not giving him the others," Mara said, standing up. Her legs were wobbly, but her voice was firm.

"We aren't?"

"No." Mara grabbed a box of matches from the desk—a souvenir from a steakhouse. "We're going to terminate his contract. With prejudice."

"But he said he can't eat you. You're safe."

"I don't care," Mara said. She looked at Elias. "I'm resigning."