50.
warehouse.

The warehouse was very dark.
I had been working here for two weeks, nothing had changed and I was still looked down upon because of my mistake on the first day.
The workers walked around as if they were zombies, the bags beneath their eyes increasing day by day. Their faces were nothing but masks, put on to hide their emotions. Every day I had to persuade myself that I was not one of them, although I knew I was.
The grey fluorescent lights slowly wore away at my eyes, as if trying to make me blind, blind to the job of packing hundreds of boxes each day with a product I detested.
I stood still for a moment.
A fellow worker asked if I was okay.
I said I was, even though my brain was trying to force its way out of my skull.
"I'm sure I could do better than this." I thought.
I decided to leave. If I didn't, this place would kill me.
I walked to the cloakroom and grabbed my jacket from its peg.
I turned the dirty door handle to the outside world. It was raining.
The grey clouds stared at me as if I had done something wrong.
"No." I thought.
"I have done something right."
I felt no better.