Written 8 December 2018
“YOU ARE WORTH LESS TO ME THAN THE SHIT ON MY SHOE.”
I wasn't sure whether he was shouting at me or one of the accountants, PR officers, Estate Agents or Systems Analysts who paid the man to yell at them in a London park whilst they did press ups, but it was becoming quite irksome.
“WHY ARE YOU SLOWING DOWN YOU TWO FUCKING WASTES OF SKIN?” He yelled at a couple to my right.
“Babe, this is amazing. It's just like being in the actual army.”
“ONE MORE PEEP OUT OF YOU AND ALL YOU'LL BE TASTING FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE IS THE END OF MY BOOT.”
They both giggled at this.
Me? Every part of me was on fire. I could barely breathe. Why the hell was I paying this man to torture me? Would he really kick me if I stopped? Did I want to find out?
“RIGHT, ONE MORE LAP OF THE PARK!”
“I can't” I murmured feebly as I collapsed. Everyone else was gingerly getting to their feet and setting off.
“YOU WILL RUN OR I WILL MAKE YOU RUN.” He spat at me as I lay face down in the grass.
“Make me then.”
Before I could say another word he dragged me to my feet by my hood, and I was running. And 400 metres later, when I collapsed and blacked out, I thought feebly of the Milgram experiment. Fuck, at least those guy's were getting paid. I'm paying to kill myself.