McDonald's (no deaths, masochism, abuse)

When people ask me about my job, they don't sound very happy to hear the answer. Which is really strange because I love my job. From the first day I went into McDonald's, my life changed, and I finally feel that I am who I should be — a piece of trash slaving out for a minimal wage. I am a clumsy girl. I know this. I often mess up the simplest orders. But thanks to that, I get a lot of hungry, angry customers screaming at my face. Some spit in my face. Angry moms often slap me in the face, and when I'm talking, big dudes hit me. Thanks to them, I get more careful over time. They remind me of my place: a cheap worker with no say or dignity. Some regulars already know me and refuse to accept the order unless I am the one who brings it.

There was this one time I processed an order, did everything right, and the dude still hit me real hard in the shoulder, as a joke. I couldn't use my left arm for a week after that. Because of this, I messed up a lot more orders and got a lot more screaming customers, who turned out to know me better than I do. They call me disgusting, slut, disappointment, dead weight — that describes me so well, I couldn't word it any better! Especially that last part about me being a dead weight — I am a weight, I am a burden — how did they know it?!

My coworkers also help me to be constantly panicked. They scream at me for being a nuisance and push me around. My manager also hits me when I fail and slaps me on the ass when he's mad. Sometimes he rubs my pussy through the uniform when nobody looks, sometimes in front of people. He says sexually harassing me is a small price to pay for my mistakes.

Some time later, I got to "know" some regulars. We regularly meet up. I live in a very bad neighborhood, so all they have to do is wait for my shift to end at 10, then they touch me, use me, kick me around, threaten me, and taze me. Last time, the same guy who punched my shoulder, injected some drugs into my arm, and cut off my fingers. I don't remember what happened after, but I woke up with blood flowing out of my head and a lot of cuts across my body, somewhere in the streets. I barely made it home that morning, half-naked, and had to hurry up to my next shift.

It's basically normal now. Customers beat me up and touch me, the team doesn't care. I am regularly being used as a fast flashlight by our manager. Sometimes, as I leave, I walk home safely, but most of the time I get into some trouble. My body constantly reminds me what a nuisance I am to other people, new injuries get on top of the old ones. I try to tell people where to hurt me so I can continue to work, but they don't listen. After a month of working like this, my manager finally called me to his office. Usually he punishes me in the bathroom or in the storeroom, so that was surprising. But this time it was for me to finally get what I am here for — money! After some slaps and kicks, he finally gifted me an envelope that should contain my money. I opened it, and… nothing?

- "Huhh..? "But where's my… payment?"

- "Payment! That's funny! Payment! You know… Where IS your payment? You DO deserve payment, right? You did complete all our orders, right? You didn't fuck up our reputation, so where is your payment? Maybe next time try to not be such a dumb, stupid whore, and maybe you'll get something on top of your thousand fines. Honestly, being a slut is the only reason you're still here yet, why didn't you sell yourself in the alleyways instead? You could become a great prop for some rich people. If being a crybaby fucking body bag is all you're good for, go fucking die filming fetish videos."

I can't believe he really said it. "Great prop"… His words flatter me, but I know that no one will ever take for free a prostitute as ugly as me.

"Okay, *wimp* please… I'll try better… I'm sorry for being such a failure… Please PLEASE!!!" I started to cry uncontrollably, fell on my knees, and begged.

"Get the fuck out of here. Your next shift is tomorrow; you now work every day, morning to evening, and if you skip at least one shift,

"I understand. I'll do my best. Thank you…"

So that's how I got permission to work every day on my dream job. This place has understanding coworkers who are not afraid to show what's best for me. Our manager spends time teaching me. Our customers are always happy to "see" me. And the fact that I don't get anything from being tortured in here really suits me up: "she sold herself for nothing"

Every day of my life, I'm trying to find someone special — someone who will end me despite how disgusting I am. And I believe that it will happen: One day I'll mess up an order as usual, and they will come behind me and smash my head on the counter, cut my hands, gouge out my eyes, rape me, beat me, stab me, shoot me, dismember me, skin me, and I'll die in my small sacred place at McDonalds.