The elevator takes me straight to level 74, where it is my little corner or the sky. My haven or whatever label youd like to put on it. I hate how I always have to endure swallowing my saliva as the elevator climbs to the peak, but when the doors slide open and the simplistic lobby greets me, I know the struggle is worth it. I thought I would eventually get over the bustling in the office, but I dont think I ever will. In fact, I love the rush.

Mendel, the guy who works in reception greets me in his usual, "Sup gal, how you doing this morning?" His skin looks like a dark marbled floor. He is the sweetest person I know in this company. He wears his hair in a tight slick with a streak of blonde and his make-up looks like he just walked out of a Dior beauty shoot. I hand him a takeaway coffee cup I always pick up for him at Starbucks and he thanks me in the unique form of, "Girl you always know how to make a black mamas day. You got some mail too."

The route to my department consist of walking through the patchwork section and the creative directors array of offices. I cringe whenever I walk here. I want recognition, but you hope to God none of them know your existence because that means a chance to be on the chopping block. I work in the Rough design section. It is basically a small aspect of the company, but shows promise in the long run. We sit around at our own little desks and sketch designs. If Hugh Shepard thinks you have potential, he will pay you for your design. If he thinks youre really talented, he makes an entire runway show to celebrate you. Very rare does that happen though. The last time it happened, it was this Asian girl that was lauded as a princess to mix modern, edgy designs with traditional, ethnic Chinese costumes. She now has her own label, and I wish a city bus would hit her.

My desk sits across a large panelled window overlooking Manhattan. I had to fight for this desk, but almost getting a restraining order was so worth it. There is just something about aerial views. Like Im a bird, bounded by nothing but my own will. I settle my things down and take in the sight because once I get started, the reality of not being a bird will hit me - hard. The girl who sits beside me is named Rebecca. She tries to converse with me from time to time, but I dont like her very much. Shes very pseudo-intellectual, likes to infer her own opinions so much no matter how stupid she sounds. Shes one of the realities that remind me Im not as fortunate as a bird. I am startled when her head suddenly pops over the partition that separates our desk, the only escape I have from her. "Morning meeting later. Did you hear the buzz?"

I point out that I just settled into my sit, and swallow my other words to remind her that Im not a gossip whore like she is. "The meeting is only with our department. And Hugh is going to make an appearance."

Now that is the biggest reality ever. Hugh Sheppard is elusive. Hes in the building, but people rarely see him. Ive heard that there are at least 10 people you have to get to before you see the man himself, so for him to make an actual physical appearance...there can only be two scenarios; someones getting the axe or someones getting a label. The thought is daunting. I ask Rebecca what the meeting is about and she shrugs but adds that Hughs show at New York Fashion Week received horrible reviews. It might have something to do with that. This time, I really wished I wad a bird.

Time seemed to have accelerated significantly because in what seemed like no time at all, our department is alive with a continuous notification sounds from our computers - emails, summoning us to the conference room. I wonder if the whole office heard the resounding crash of my heart. I shouldnt be this nervous, but my designs havent been picked for months now. What if they need to trim the people who have not been performing? I am screaming inside as I make my way with the crowd, hoping I am scrawny enough to be hidden by the masses of loudly dressed fashion designers.

I take a sit next to Rebecca and some others but do not engage in their idle gossip because Im nervous enough with the scenarios Im directing inside my mind. The room falls silent when our staff manager, Chelsea, a tall blonde woman who has been said to have gotten the job because she spent more time spreading her legs than her resume. Thats just a rumor though. She struts in with skyscraper heels and a blouse that does not leave any imagination at all to how her tits look like. She greets us good morning and we murmur in response. She takes a seat, but not her usual authoritative seat. Today, that seat is reserved and everybody notices. A few blank minutes spread out for a while, with bees buzzing in the hive. The door opens and all goes silent - I think I even vaguely hear a sharp gasp.

"Good morning everyone," greets the fashion mogul, in the flesh. A string of muffled responses come but most of us find our breathing hitched. Ive only ever seen Hugh Shepard twice since Ive been here. Once was when he climbed out of his car but was quickly hidden by his entourage, and the other time was when he came to our department to basically scream at us for being incompetent. Ive been told hes a nice guy, but is cut throat when it comes to his business of us designing for his retail stores but I guess anyone would be cut throat if its your name plastered across thousands of outlets in the globe.

He does the fashion designer stereotypes a great justice - platinum blond hair, top to toe black and he wears sunglasses...like all the time. On every idle gossip magazine there is, his eyes are always shielded behind dark tinted sunglasses as if looking into his eyes would turn you into stone. Thats my generalization at least. He apologizes for cutting our breakfast short but the hollowness in his apology could have fit a crane. "I am sure you are all wondering why were gathered here this morning." Cue the Symphony of crickets. Hughs assistant, a young red-headed woman whose height could have given the Eiffel tower a run for its money, hands him an orange folder. I have no idea whats in there, but my gut tells me nothing good. I am so glad he doesnt know i exist - or at least, I hope he doesnt.

"In this folder is the latest reviews, sales numbers and overall responses of our latest Winter line. Also, a personal email from Anna Wintour," tells Hugh. "And theyre all abysmal."

His words were resounding, even though his tone was barely audible, soft and menacing.

"Abysmal!" repeats his assistant, as if the same words from Hugh werent terrifying enough.

I can hear Rebeccas breathing accelerating to a worrying pace. I wonder if she has a saviour shot inside her Prada purse because even though it is unclear what the motive of this meeting is, the possibility is endless. Even I find myself on a pedestal, judged by his Fendi glasses. I gulp hard and wonder briefly if the sound of my saliva traveling down to my respiratory system gave my identity away - the scrawny boy from Ohio who contributed close to nuts to this company, this global brand.

"Tell me something, Ive been told that we recruit people who have creativity coursing through their veins, people who know that Fashion is not simply putting a trench coat over a floral dress or high heels with a cocktail dress. I was told that my team, the people I allow to take up room in my kingdom, are amongst the best the world can offer and yet we arent perceived that way. Why are we not being perceived that day, hm? Does anyone have any useful words for me?" ask Hugh but of course nobody raises their hands or even mutters anything. Our fate feels fairly obvious by now. "Clearly none of you can explain."

I swallow my words back because frankly he is the decision maker so if a line gets bad reviews, its because he made the wrong call yet he has the audacity to sit here and blame us. It saddens me, people with power. So quick to take the credit, but also so quick to push the blame to its subordinates.

"So, in light of this, Ive come up with a way to hopefully pull you people out of the mud," says Hugh. Here it comes, the chopping knife. Were all already laid out and ready on the chopping block. I wonder if by you people, all he really means is himself considering its his name at the entrance. Hugh Shepard wearily points to his assistant as if to cue her. She pulls another folder from her back and i wonder if there are more behind her. Seems like she can hide the world behind her skinny frame seeing as i did not notice the first folder either.

"Sally Madison," starts the crimson haired assistant. "Jennifer Dallas, Michael Foresten, Rebecca Blight and Kurt Hummel."

I almost jumped out of my seat when I hear my name, but soon after my insides are filled with a dark, uncomfortable sensation that threatens to find its way up to my mouth. Just a few minutes ago I was merely a dust speck, now my name feels like its plastered across the headline of the New York Times, with the words Jumped In front of an Incoming Train scribbled beneath. Why have they called my name? I do not know but i reckon as guinea pigs. Merely pawns to assert Hughs dominance...I am collateral damage. I feel it cold in my bones.

"These group of people have been chosen - for a special project," says the assistant. A project? I want to die. Now. "But before we brief these people on the project, the rest of you whose names werent called out - your employment has been terminated. Please leave the room and collect your last pay check from the pay roll counter. We thank you for your services."

A sharp gasp resounds in the conference room - and it came from me. I am beyond words, I have absolutely no comprehension whatsoever. Am i in the wrong group of people? Because I sure as hell should be. The group of unfortunate five rise to their feet, hang their heads and exit the room with a cold air of misery in their wake. I turn quizzically to Rebecca but she wears the same disgruntled look in her face. The horrible aspect of this whole situation is the fact that Hugh Shepard didnt even bother to look at the people he had just terminated, instead his attention is focused on the folder. I am infuriated, but Im glad I am spared - for now.

In a matter of mere minutes, our department has been cut in half and that fact is not comforting. The room is left with a tense, fearful ambiance and right now, I wish more than ever to have wings.

"Right, now that weve gotten that painful part out of the way," says Hugh, albeit he brushes it off like he did not just out 5 people out of employment, out of income. As if he did not just crush 5 dreams. "Ive come up with a little competition. For the five of you."

This meeting is like the gift that keeps on giving.

"The five of you will have a month to put together an entire line - for New Yorks Fashion Week." Rebecca pretty much did a 360 spin in her seat. She is like that, an optimist.

"The catch, however, is that there can only be one winner. The rest will join the other 5 that just left this room."

A crisp silence falls upon the room. A realization dawns on me that this is less a competition, and more of an extermination of the weak - and Im standing right in the line of fire. Hugh Shepard has a malicious smirk playing across the corner of his lips. My gut feels sick knowing how hes enjoying this - our suffering. How sadistic is my boss?

"At the end of the time given to you, you will present 7 different looks in the form of a runway show or a fashion spread and I will make my decision. Until then, you are all dismissed," says Hugh as he rises to his feet and carries himself out the door, leaving in his wake a massive tsunami of unbalanced emotions.

"What the hell?" shrieks Rebecca. She looks around at whatever is left of our department and even she looks distraught. "What just happened?"

"Our signatures were forced onto a death wish, thats what happened," says Sally, one of the survivors. The door creaks open again and Hughs assistant walks in. Has she finally realized Im in the wrong group? My heart deflates and sways to crash at the pit of my stomach.

"In case the message was not clear, this is the chopping block. You either be made into a great dish, or thrown away like useless scraps. Go home, and get to the drawing board," she says before she leaves. I secretly wonder if she exist solely for making Hughs points more brought through with harsher truths. Like a mean parrot.

Sally Madison is first on her feet. I never knew she existed up until today. I guess theres no point in making acquaintances now. Nobody says anything, which really is for the best because anything said right now might make the situation we have ourselves worsen. I dont know what I feel exactly. Thrilled? Worried? Definitely somewhere along those lines. The opportunity is incredible, but the risk is incredible too. I am still in disbelief that they didnt throw me out too. Do I actually have a 1/5 chance of taking this competition?

People begin to leave one by one until finally i find myself in the room with only Rebecca left. We say nothing, but the unspoken words are clear. Whatever bare modicum of friendship ends here because war has begun.