...Trash talk
There’s more. The next morning he took me to a private chamber and started with the small, soul-withering stuff again. His eyes were beads of fury, mixed with a certain glee. It was hard to read him. He forced me to speak, at one point kicking my leg with the front of his boot, on why I was “so difficult to work with”. I said I refuse to be treated like this and that I could no longer work under him. I remember being so full of it that, humiliatingly, I started to shed tears in front of him. They wouldn’t stop and that made it worse. Until that day I was reporting to one person, and now suddenly, I was reporting to his doppelganger. It was eerie.
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