Myra | A-Z

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last edited on ZLT: 29.02.20



“I can’t believe you did it.” She murmured into her phone in disbelief and made a dash across the road just as the green light threatened to stop blinking.

“I’d do anything for daddy, you know that.” Lyla purred into the phone on the other side.

“You sure you can handle it?” She brisk-walked down the pavement, scanning for a cafe, she was in a desperate need of some sort of caffeine boost to clear her muddied state of mind; she’s half convinced her brain’s still asleep.

“Gasp! Myra, are you offering to help?” She could almost imagine the sly smirk crawling up her sister’s face at the other side in her blurry mind.

“You know I don’t dabble in his business.” Myra said.

“It’s my business now too; Myra I’m insulted.”

She pressed her shoulder up to hold her phone while she rummaged though her bag for the papers and replied: “You’ve got Jonathan.”

“Yes, thank god for Johnny, but still Myra, I need my sister by my side as well…”

“He’s good enough to be the quadruple of me.” She said, rubbing her eyelids. Goodness, why did she feel like she’s having a hangover?

“Yes, he’s great, but God knows what he’s into, he doesn’t want to help me!” Neither did she. She opened her bag wider, where were the papers?

“I already have a job, sis.” Not exactly true, but it will be, on very very technical terms.

“Are you seriously giving up this potential spot I’m going to offer you for some crappy job in some shady country?” Her sister’s voice raised a little.

“My job’s perfectly fine.” She protested, her mind refusing to cooperate to spit out some possible jobs she could lie about. Her bag refused to spit out her résumé either, she swore she brought it along.

“Yes yes, sure it is Myra. But come on, help me out here, daddy and everybody else are brilliant and supplying the brawn side, but I need your amazing brains.” Lyla appealed to her childishly. It was amazing to think a woman like that can hold up a whatever-million company.

“You have the entire company workers at your pick.” She said.

“Myra! This is a family business, there’s no way I’m going to hire some outsider to do it. Besides, your office is already set up and painted in your favorite ice mint colour.” Myra had to applaud her sister for an attempted bribery, but she wasn’t very good at it.

“I have to study.”

“Studying can wait, this can’t wait. C’mon Myra, for your favourite da jie?” Lyla threw in some Mandarin to soften her up, she knew Myra always held a special spot for her mother tongue.

“Exam’s in half a year’s time.” And she couldn’t find her papers.

Her sister exhaled a loud breath in the phone, a sigh which Myra perked up at. She was very well acquainted with this sigh, and it just so happened to be the favourite word of hers to exit Lyla’s blabbing mouth—it was the sigh that told her her sister was relenting; Lyla’s too soft sometimes. “Fine. But this won’t be the end of it, you’ll hear from me very soon!” She could hear Lyla huffing. Lyla being Lyla, would very much so torture her with her persistent calls.

“Of course, sis.” Ah-ha! She found it. She clamped her papers between her lips then proceeded to reach up to untangle her hair, and hopefully smoothen it into a nice ponytail or something.

“Come home for Christmas ‘kay?” Her sister asked in her nice voice, it didn’t sound like a request though. Myra tugged her hair back painfully, her mind racing with worry. At the rate the plane ticket prices were skyrocketing, she doubt she could even afford a one-way trip to the country next door.

“Mmmm, bhmm-ii.” She hummed a vague reply and a muffled goodbye, and quickly hung up before her sister’s torrent of insists rained down on her. She learnt this trick the hard way after enduring lectures that costed her phone bill, too, to skyrocket. She sighed. Lots of things were skyrocketing nowadays, especially for her. She’s almost surprised she still planted to the ground and not skyrocketing into galaxy along with her endless bills.

She quickened her steps, managing to hold her hair up with a stray pencil she found somewhere in her bag. She rubbed her nose, a telltale sign of her erupting nervousness for the forthcoming interview, which she was starting doubt she’ll be able to make it in time.

Her kitten heels broke yesterday and she spilled milk on her new black blazer this morning. She could only hope her possible future employer would forgive her poor clothing replacement– her bright green high-top converse and a white polka-dotted cardigan she’d discovered at the bottom of her wardrobe.

At the rate she was going, she’ll crash and burn before her plane of independence even lifted off the runway of her miserable life. She’ll never get a job, face the possibility of getting kicked out of the apartment, stand by and watch the interest pile up on her student loan, not be able to even afford flying business class home, face the wrath of her sisters, and her father, and ultimately, her family forcing her to drop her studies and, again, her sisters, and father, blackmailing her into that blasted family business of theirs.

Oh goodness, she needed a job. She needed this job, badly.

She felt a headache threatening to pound her mind just thinking about the many zeros on the bills she’ll be facing when she check her letterbox. Gahh.

Myra marched down the pavement, wiggling her way through the crowd. She unfolded her papers she had been holding, and stared at it. Was it enough? It didn’t look too bad, but then again, she’d spent less than an hour on it. Okay, maybe she should have gotten a folder or something for her poor excuse of a résumé, which had been somehow got crumpled and wrinkled in her bag and came out like crinkled seaweed. But it’s the quality, not the quantity, right? Or in this case, the quality of her achievements not the quality of the paper.

She ran through her speech she’d mentally prepared and a list of possible interview question they may throw her and nodded to herself. Yes, she would get the job, she would get her salary, she would pay her electricity bills, she would spit out the money for her student loan, she would be able to afford dry cleaning, she would restock her fridge. Yes, yes she would. Now all she had to do was to get a job. It shouldn’t be that hard, right?

She round the corner and turned into the street, 5th Avenue. She wrinkled her nose at the irony. Well, one way or another, she’s got to get this job. Imagine her mother’s gaping horror and her father’s disdain, not to mention Lyla’s smugness, Kyla’s I-knew-this-was-going-to-happen look, Ryla’s pitiful pat on the back and Cyra’s cutting apathy when they hear of her struggling to survive on her own.

Her tearing up her drafted future and hopping on the first flight out of the country in her early years was already categorised as an outrageous rebellion of some sort (she’s pretty proud she’s the first to do so amongst her sisters), she wouldn’t want to be dragged back home by the ear and be pinned to responsibilities she never intended fulfill all over again.

It’s be utterly humiliating, and her freedom will once again be stripped away from her. No. She didn’t want that sort of life then, and she didn’t intend to have that sort of life again.



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