I had no desire to go to Turin. Especially after the recent series of events at work. I made sure to inform Mr. Director of my request for a leave, in time to adhere to the protocol. He, without giving a clear positive or negative answer, addressed me with his gaze, never leaving the open study in front of him, that perhaps my presence in the office next week would be necessary. Days went by without us meeting again in the hallways or any other common space of the dreary building that housed our company, but I had the feeling that I was being watched. Perhaps the screen-dimpled, inquisitive eyes of the rest of my despicable colleagues, and the paucity of their indifferent greetings, also played a part in evoking this feeling. As if everyone had been informed about the shameful leave I was requesting to take.

A day before I left, the General Secretary visited me in my office looking dreadfully formal, to ask me if I finally intended to leave on the days I requested from Mr. Director. "Of course I’ll have to go. After all, I have booked the plane tickets already." I replied apologetically. "Oh, so you're going abroad?" she said crossing her arms over my head. I wanted her to know as little information as possible about the nature of my trip. But in order to get rid of her as quickly as possible I allowed a small part of the truth to be revealed, believing that it would make her appreciate the seriousness of the matter and cease the questions. Instead, it felt like she had infiltrated my mind and was seeing my thoughts. Not only could she see them, she could grasp them! The tingles of joy, the short moments of pain, the sweat running down my forehead. "Yes, this is a very important trip." I hastened to explain. After a brief pause I noticed her face take on a rigid expression that made it clear to me that the time had come for her to utter the line she had been preparing since she burst into my office, "Is it more important than your work here?". As soon as I heard these words, in this sequence, the joints in my knees went numb. But my brain instinctively rushed to react to my momentary physical incapacitation by compensating, “It may not be more important, but I was clear and informed you early enough about the days I requested. It concerns, as I told you, my health and certain irreversible steps have already been taken to make it happen." I wasn't sure if I was speaking clearly or if I was stuttering but I continued, "I am afraid I'll have to be away for the whole of next week." Without another word she huffed haughtily, turned her back and walked to the door with a stride that indicated she still hadn't spoken her last word.

In all honesty, I can’t say I blame them for their reaction. I sat back in the cramped middle seat of the plane, as if I was preparing to battle the last hour left before landing. It took me seven years to find a job with conditions slightly better than the menial jobs I was forced to do in the past. Normally, I should do what the rest of my colleagues do, talk less and above all not go against anyone, let alone my superiors. But my addiction is actually the problem. Even on the most grueling days at the company, the ones where I was sitting in the chair at nine in the morning and getting up again hours after the last worker had left, I caught my mind in moments recalling the feelings of euphoria that I was about to experience in a few hours.

I wasn't the only addict though. I had met others like me. Others with more or less dependence or a different way they liked to take their dose. During the last eight years I had discovered this company, if one could call it that, which offered this practically impossible to obtain on the streets, substance at a somewhat tolerably for my almost empty pockets price. It happened on the dawn of a Thursday in the last car of the first morning train, where I had found tucked between the seats, an imaginative card with the logo “ANTIZ Desires Supply”. Surprisingly, despite the vigilance government of my dark country, I managed without arousing suspicion to find the end of the thread that connected me to the "off the radar" actions of this company. I soon found myself out of the country for the first time, with my tracks covered as mandated by the collective that answered to the name on the card.

I wanted her to know as little information as possible about the nature of my trip. But in order to get rid of her as quickly as possible I allowed a small part of the truth to be revealed.

"Please fasten your seat belt", I snapped out of my thoughts by the voice of the not so impressive flight attendant. "We're approaching the airport." she continued and hurried off once she was sure I had it fastened. A few more minutes and I would be with the German who liked to take the substance daily and little by little in the most unexpected places. Unlike the Austrian, who was pleased to take the substance less often but in larger doses, on the most imposing parts of the cities. The Scandinavians were thorough in their habits. They took the substance in perfectly clean and orderly conditions with high precision that strongly indicated the level of their abilities. The Italian was the luckiest to me. He was pleased with spontaneous doses which were enough to keep his brain numb for days. The latter was quite similar to the Belgian, who, however, found the strangest moments and most mysterious places to satisfy his addiction. Finally, the Frenchman, the owner of the company, was taking the substance more lightly now, but he took care of its circulation and the secrecy of our practices.

Even on the most grueling days at the company, the ones where I was sitting in the chair at nine in the morning and getting up again hours after the last worker had left, I caught my mind in moments recalling the feelings of euphoria that I was about to experience in a few hours.

I felt a vibration in the right pocket of my jeans. At that time I was walking towards the exit of the airport ready to breathe the fresh air, after hours trapped in the stale atmosphere of the indoor areas. I hurried to answer the phone. I was pretty sure that it would be one of the two Italians, our connecting links with the city of Turin. "Good evening Mr. P." came an unpleasantly familiar female voice. "We have sent to your e-mail the forms you need to fill in for your dismissal." I felt the General Secretary's pretentiously cheerful voice grabbing me by the skin of my back like a steel fist and landing me on my worn out desk chair. Before I could respond she continued, “You can go through Monday to collect your compensation. I wish you all the best with your life onwards...” and then the characteristic cold monotonous sound of the line hanging up on the other end.

In the distance I could see a gray nine-seater van and strange figures around it. I wasn't sure if I recognized anyone. It didn't matter. Everything started to blur. I heard familiar voices around me. I let them lead me inside the vehicle. I sank into my seat and felt the substance rushing through my veins.