Lightning cracks and thunderous booms echoed around the lone FedEs aircraft braving the Atlantic storm. This did not faze the pilots; they were used to the odd unexpected and adverse weather. Neither encountered such a ferocious flurry of crackling destruction like it. Jokingly, they mocked the suspect forecaster for their misfortune.

Within the cargo hold sat the perpetrator as some tribal accusations would believe a bringer of chaos, madness and destruction. Even though it had a mouth, it never spoke. It had eyes, frozen in a blank expression – red like the pits of hell. Even the strongest fell foul to its alluring emerald exterior.

This was not a creature of God's creation or a weapon. It was a mask, an unassuming jade mask. If the pilots didn't land soon, it too would claim its next victims. The storm lashed out at the plane, striking whips of judgement lightning. Strong winds encouraged the craft to deviate from its current trajectory, but the pilots remained in control.

Peril wrought hours passed and the craft landed at Bristol Airport in the early hours of the morning. Even on the ground, lightning strikes could be seen in the darkened sky. A welcoming committee of local mail couriers arrived to collect the incoming payload, ready to ship them off to their next flights or further inland.

Intervention prevented one particular package from reaching its intended destination. One baggage attendant, very lackadaisical in his trade, lobbed the package onto the conveyer belt. Like some otherworld force defiant to disrupt the status-quo, it bounced and jostled one parcel aside, taking its place.

Nobody took any notice of the mishap. At such early hours of the morning they wanted nothing more than to return to their cribs and doze off. Some had already done so; the mistake might have been noticed sooner otherwise. The package, and its mysterious contents, made its way onto the next truck heading through the rural south-west of England.

An alarm blared, and a sharp snort escaped Roxanne's nose as she awoke. Resistant groans followed and she slammed her hand over the nuisance beeper. Barely eight minutes passed when the alarm went again. And again she groaned and slammed the clock, more aggressively this time.

"Agh," she moaned, hoisting her body from under the sheets. It was barely morning; the sun hadn't even crept through the blinds yet, inky darkness filled the room. Roxanne yawned and stretched her arms out as she prepared for another days work. The untended carpet between her toes stood sharply upwards, prickling the soles of her feet as she walked. First port of call was the bathroom. A single light over the mirror flickered several times before it pulsed indefinitely, Roxanne yawned again as she examined the bags of her eyes.

Nothing a little bit of makeup won't fix, she thought. There was no need to be waxing it on like a harlot. Roxanne was modest. Shame the same rules did not apply to her haircut. Messy brunette and red highlights – or red head with brunette roots – were always her thing. It was a mistake in the first place. Just a silly prank where she decided to put red paint in her hair during primary school art class. It just stuck with her ever since. Now every morning she was making sure the tone and saturation was just right. She at least realised that dye was the answer, not paint. That was one tick off her list of things to get right in her minimal existence. Hair dye was the simplest; everything else was more of a chore to Roxanne than reward. A worthwhile job, even a career was much more important.

Working as a mailroom clerk was hardly aspiring, but it at least helped keep a roof over her head and additional support meant she could still have a life and an apartment to call her own. Other artefacts of her past exploits and ambitions littered her otherwise dreary living space. A guitar lay over the sofa. Doodles of various abstract images littered her computer desk. Somewhere on the hard drive were her failed attempts at freelancing, or writing a novel. Roxanne had tried different prospects. Yet each time, they led to a dead end. She'd either given up, or was told otherwise.

At least Roxanne's compulsive hoarding remained consistent. Collections of various trinkets and nick-knacks decorated her apartment, neatly hung, stowed away, or piled in a corner of one room. Some of it worthwhile pendants, the rest was just worthless junk – though not to Roxanne, despite her peers' protests.

Roxanne fixed herself a simple breakfast; strawberry jam on toast, and a coffee. All she needed to kick-start a day. An extra eight minutes in bed and she was falling behind – any longer and she would be late. Always allowing herself just enough time was Roxanne's style. She jammed the last grains of toast into her gob, on the cusp of choking, and quickly adjusted her hair as she strolled out the door. For a moment she forgot to lock it, but remembered before she dashed off. Even on her way to office, she kept recounting in her mind whether or not she locked the door. Of course she did. But she remained anxious all day, every day, until she returned home.

Roxanne lived out in the country, a few miles from nearby Bristol, so she had to drive her prized '75 Mustang – her parent's twenty-sixth birthday gift to her.

The rural location was quiet and peaceful enough, but she really wanted to live in the city, closer to her friends. A minimum wage job was not going to get her that. Even her parents would not help her out with all their money.

They did agree to pay part of her rent until Roxanne could get a better job. But each time the promise was made, Roxanne did not follow through. Now she was stuck in the mire going nowhere. She hoped her expanses into new territories would be the answer. They were not. Instead they just made Roxanne ask more questions about what she wished to achieve – what to do with her life. After so many different attempts, she wasn't sure anymore.

An eerie Friday morning mist glazed the roads. The amber headlights did little to pierce the flowing veil. Not that it mattered much. Roxanne had the route ingrained in her head. She admired the visage of the cloud white wisps dancing over the ground ahead, as if in a constant dream, or driving through a ghost town. Imagining she was the only person in town – or the world. Goosebumps crawled up her skin. But she came crashing back to reality as she pulled into the car park of the mailing office. She allowed the vehicle to idle for a moment, listening to the radio DJ finish his record.

When Roxanne finally clocked in for her shift at five-forty-eight-ish, she was quickly intercepted by her friend, Liz.

"Roxy! Dylan'll have your skin if he catches you." Early mornings had not done wonders for Liz's complexion. The amount of creases under her eyelids made her appear older. Liz and Roxanne went to the same school together, both in the same year. She was actually a few months younger than Roxanne.

"Why? I'm not late." Roxanne snuck a glance at the clock. She knew that she was on time - early for once.

"He saw what you wrote in the staff room."

Roxanne reminisced and chuckled slightly. Liz remained stern and straight faced. "Oh, come on, can't anybody have a laugh in this place?" She had become frustrated by her colleagues' lack of tidiness in the staff room that she wrote: 'Your mother does not work here,' in big bold letters across the fridge door. Apparently that is offensive enough to warrant an ear-bashing from her supervisor, Dylan. "If management aren't gonna do something about it. I will! Else, I'll go insane if I stay here much longer." The pair acquired their bags for sorting, ready for the day's tasks.

"So you said last week, and the week before that. When are you actually moving on? You've been talking about quitting for months yet here you are, still."

Roxanne sighed heavily. "I'm still working on it."

"Sure. I thought you wanted to be a writer?"

"Musician," Roxanne replied as she started sorting the envelopes and packages coming through.

Liz laughed, unsurprised by her friend's response. "It's always something new with you. What's next month's agenda? Adult film star?" Liz sniggered, forcing a slight reaction from her friend, "Can't you just pick one thing and stick at it?"

"You mean like I am now."

Liz cracked a smile. "If you put in as much effort into pursing a meaningful career as you do antagonising Dylan, you'd be an astronaut, or something, by now." Roxanne couldn't think of an answer. She had become content enough with her job that she did not outright leave. But she would be lying to herself if she said 'Yes. I am happy with my job.' Despite recent pursuits, she was expecting the world around to change for her benefit. She had given up trying.

"Maybe it's just waiting for me – the perfect opportunity."

"You'll find out eventually, I'm sure." Liz's reassuring smile generated a subtle tweak of Roxanne's lips.

"You…ever think of doing anything else, Liz? I don't want to think that you're here just because I am."

"Nah, no. This job is all I need, gives Pete a chance to look after the young 'un while I work." Liz married her long term boyfriend, Peter Lynch, a few years back and had a kid. Roxanne always admired their relationship; she was even a tad jealous. It wasn't that she liked Pete, not even close; it was because they were family. And, while they were not making millions, they could sustain raising a family. Roxanne had a deep, hidden yearning for such. Yet she did nothing to chase it. Just like everything else, it was an idea for the slag heap.

"It shows," Roxanne replied, "You really need to do something about those eyes, Manson."

The conversation dragged as did the day. They didn't realise the sun had come up until they took a brief cigarette break. The mist had vanished, only the clouds from their tobacco sticks filled the air, burning their throat and stinging the nostrils. Roxanne's co-workers shot her several hateful glances, silently discussing in their little cult. She couldn't make out their discussion, but she didn't care. She just imagined their heads were seven feet into the concrete.

After their smoke break, Roxanne was assigned a separate section to Liz. A series of packages delivered from overseas arrived and Roxanne was tasked with sorting them. She was left alone, since the bulk of the staff had not clocked in yet. Either that or most called in sick, or were avoiding her. At least, that's what her paranoia said.

She didn't mind so much – time alone and just get on with her work.

After organising much of the payload, Roxanne came across an unmarked package. She examined every corner of it for an address to sort, but there was none. The edges were worn from travel and the cardboard was saturated, breaking off in her petite fingers. With no idea on where to organise it, Roxanne went to put the box aside when she heard the side rip. A solid clunk rang around the room as something hit the ground. She jumped and glanced down; a cracked, broken face stared at her from the ground – jade tinted shell and bloodshot eyes.

"Wait, is that?" she whispered to herself. Roxanne leant down to pick it up, her eyes locked on the bloody stare. Like a magpie to silver, she was entranced by the alluring trinket. Roxanne had an idea what she was holding and she felt giddy just thinking about it. Since hearing the stories she had to have it.

Where were you going? Roxanne asked herself, pulling a small smile. Without a proper address she had no idea where it was going. Flipping it over, she saw the white marker – 'Prototype #5' – etched within the concave of the mask; there was no doubt that this was it. Her smile grew and, without realising it, her eyes became drawn to the empty sockets, surprisingly clear, considering the opaque red tint on the exterior. Roxanne had to flip the mask to make sure she wasn't imagining things.

Red on the outside, but clear on the inside?

Curiosity took over; she wanted to wear it, to try it on, to see the world through the eyes of the mask. She pulled it closer, heart steadily pumping to the rhythm of a drum. The mask would easily cover her face, with plenty of excess. Feeling the soft touch of her own breath against the hollowed item, inch by inch, Roxanne drew closer. Distant sounds and machinery slapped her back into reality.

Footsteps approached; Roxanne dropped the mask into her bag and dumped the rotted packaging. It was just the next batch of parcels being wheeled down.

"Next batch," the guy called as he pushed the loaded trolley to Roxanne's feet. He looked up as Roxanne tried acting innocent. "You okay, uh-" he struggled.

"Roxy," she replied, trying to dig into her work in the hope that the clerk would stop talking.

"Roxy. Roxy. You look a little flushed. Not coming down with something are ya? Or have you seen the Office Spook?"

"You mean Dylan?" Roxanne laughed; even the aging clerk let a baritone chuckle slip. "Nah, no, uh, nothing like that. I'm fine. You just…caught me by surprise a little – can get a bit jumpy when alone like this."

"Okay. I'll oil up these squeaky joints and wheels the next time I roll by – don't want to give you a heart attack."

I'd be thinking more for your health. Roxanne thought.

He got a hold of an empty trolley. "Oh! And beware the ghosts, Roxy. Beware!" He joked as he walked away, his voice echoing down the halls for miles. Tyrone. That was his name, Roxanne recalled. He'd been working at the office for years - one of the longest servers. Seeing so many people come and go, no wonder he could not remember Roxanne. It had been only five years. Of course he would not remember her.

Roxanne managed to continue her duties, but every time she emptied her bag, she caught a glimpse of that mask staring back at her.

Sometimes, she thought she heard people talking, even when she was alone. Someone was calling her name.

Roxanne.

"Hello?" she would call out; each time there was no response. At first she thought Tyrone was playing his senile tricks again. But it was not. Even when she heard it next with Liz, she accused her.

"You're not supposed to go stir crazy until you've been here at least ten years," Liz joked. Roxanne was relieved when the clock ticked over to her break. It gave her the chance to drink some office coffee and kick up her feet for at least half an hour. The message she wrote was still on the staff room fridge for all to see, a group of young clerks gazed at Roxanne uniformly, branding their scornful looks into her brain. Roxanne could barely remember each of their names – she didn't bother to – but she did know one of them, all too well, Dudley Wilson. She would not indulge in their games and arguments; instead she wanted to see Liz. It wasn't often that both would get on the same break shift, but Liz sweet-talked Dylan into changing them.

"Hey, Liz," Roxanne said, getting as close as possible, away from the ears of the male contingent.

"Rox. Still surviving the rigours of office banter, I see."

"Look what I found."

Liz sighed, her eyes drooping with disappointment, "Don't tell me you've stolen another package again. I can't keep covering for you."

"It would've been no good, the label was worn-"

"Doesn't matter," Liz coughed behind a cup of coffee. "It's stealing!" Roxanne begged Liz to keep her voice down, lest she set off the gossipy crowd.

"Look. Just look at this." Roxanne pulled the mask from the bottom of her pack. "Pretty cool, yeah?"

"I see a resemblance," Liz said dryly.

Roxanne ignored her and pressed. "Come on, you know what this is?"

Liz shrugged. "Half price Tesco Halloween mask?"

"Pfft…no." Roxanne surveyed around again to see if anybody was eavesdropping and jumped over the couch to sit next to Liz. "Have you heard of Grepco Toys' Tiki Town?" Liz became suddenly uninterested and sighed frustratingly. "No-no, just listen-"

"This is another one of your kleptomaniac moments, isn't it?"

Roxanne continued regardless. "Tiki Town is a new craze coming out of New York. I read on the net that Aldo Krasker, who created the franchise, died before he could finish – some say he was mental, killed a bunch of people, but that's just blabber. Before he died, he designed these sweet looking, prototype masks that I must have one for my collection. See that?" Roxanne pointed to the graffiti inside the mask. "That means this is one of the originals – a real collector's item!"

"Congrats. And I'm sure it'll look better on your shelf rather than your face."

Roxanne feigned a sarcastic laugh and placed the mask safely with her belongings, finally surrendering to Liz's lack of intrigue. "In a few years that mask could be worth millions-" The staff room door suddenly flew open. A lean man with combed head of orange hair stood staring at Roxanne.

Dylan. Shit.

"Miss Travellyan," he said sternly across the bodies of workers. Roxanne knew he was serious. He used her surname. Scary. Otherwise he would've just said 'Roxy' or 'Roxanne' for casual banter. He stared at her handiwork on the fridge.

"Defacing company property is a disciplinary offense."

"And defacing the staff room isn't?" Roxanne retorted, looking at her colleagues expectantly. They all stared back at her for a moment before turning away. Roxanne imagined the kind of disgusted faces they were pulling out of her sight. Or what they were plotting to get their own back. "I prefer a tidy staff room, not a pig sty. Else, I'll go roll in a ditch."

"That is true, but you failed to notice that you in fact have defaced the staff room." Dudley and his group sniggered and chattered amongst themselves watching Roxanne grimace and squirm. "You could've easily discussed it with me."

No point, you don't fucking listen. She thought, or even wanted to say. As proud as she would be by admitting it openly she knew what would happen if she did: A drawn out process with Dylan, her supervisor, in a boxy room explaining what she did, why and what would happen next. Previously it was just a piece of paper and slap-on-the-wrist outcome. How much more would Dylan put up with her? If he knew what was in the locker behind her, then that would not be much longer.

'Kill him already!' cried the haunting voice. Those same spine tingling tones unsettled her. Roxanne looked behind her briefly, as if she now knew where the voice was coming from. However she didn't want to believe it. Dylan watched her closely.

"Do you understand?" he asked again. Roxanne didn't even realise he had asked the question already. "Roxanne?!" She was absorbed in her own imagination. So she had to grunt.

"Do. You. Understand?" he repeated for the third time.

"Perfectly," she replied unconvincingly with an appropriate smile.

Dylan glanced around for a moment, clocking everyone that witnessed the conversation. "Good," he said calmly. "So you can clean up your mess. Now."

Roxanne felt like whacking that guy's head into the fridge. She suppressed those feelings by letting out a frustrated groan. It wasn't until Roxanne walked out of the room with Dylan that the sniggering intensified. Liz didn't appreciate her colleagues mocking Roxanne so. She too felt like pounding a few of them, or talking them to death about principle.

"You assholes are the reason for this," Liz said to the group, gesturing towards the graffiti.

"It's worth it to see Roxanne fly off her rocker," Dudley laughed. "She gets so passionate about this shit-hole it's quite sad really."

Fortunately, once Roxanne returned with industrial cleaning materials, the herd had thinned and Dudley was gone. Liz hung about.

"Look, don't worry about Dylan."

"I'm not worried," Roxanne strained as she prepped her spray. "Why would I be worried? I have everything under control."

"I know that face," Liz replied. "You've got one of your 'Roxanne's Revenge' plans brewing. Right?" She knew of Roxy's revenge attempts: All talk, no substance. Except for one time in high school when she stubbed a cigarette on her ex's cheek. He never raised a hand against her again, but she got suspended for a few weeks.

"I'll be damned if I have to spend the rest of the day scrubbing this crap off."

"Did you not think to put it on paper and just tape it on? And, why of all things, did you have to use permanent marker?"

"I never was too bright," Roxanne groaned sarcastically, scrubbing the marks as hard as she could. The remaining colleagues watched on with amusement. Roxanne knew it was them that left the place in a tip anyway.

"Yeah, none too bright at all, Spitfire," one called out.

"You missed a spot, Spitfire," said another, purposely chucking a wrapper down on the ground.

"I hate that name," Roxanne grunted. She never quite knew where the nickname originated. Maybe it was because she always shot off her mouth at anything. Or maybe it's just because her hair was red like a flame. Or it was a combination of both.

"Could be worse," Liz assured, "How old are you guys again?"

"Eighteen, mom," one said. Eight years younger than both the girls. Liz wanted to smack the guy for his constant antagonising. She could see the anger boiling on Roxanne's face; it translated into her furious scrubbing. Gritted teeth and grunting made her sound like a lawnmower.

"Real mature fellas. Did Dudley teach you to be such gentlemen? Pick it up," Liz demanded with folded arms. The guys didn't answer. Roxanne appeared and removed the rubbish. "Rox, what are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" Roxanne shrugged. "I'm fucking cleaning, ain't I?"

Liz glided over and whispered in her ear. "They'll keep this up if you just let them walk all over you."

"They're not worth my boot," Roxanne replied quietly, disposing of the wrapper.

"Sometimes they are worth it. You've got to get mad every now and then."

"I am mad!" Roxanne raised her voice sharply, alerting the Meerkats nearby. "But kicking dirt like them won't do me any good. I can't do without this job. The parents would not approve." She sneered at the group staring. "You keep your grinning and you fucks will get yours. Eventually. I guarantee it!"

"Oh no," one jested, "I'm so freaking-terrified. What're you gonna do, Spitfire, rub me out?"

"Well…" Something broke. Roxanne's face turned grim and her smile inverted, twitching as if she were hiding emotions best kept contained. "When you're face is deep inside a concrete slab…we'll see who's laughing," Roxanne remarked with a twisted grin. "Buried alive, or seeing your intestines decorating the hallway. Perhaps I'll rip out your liver and mail it first class to Hannibal Lector! Then I'll take your heart and play the bagpipes whilst I dance on your mangled corpse." The group didn't flinch, but Liz could sense the uneasiness between them and stepped in.

"Enough details, Rox." Of course they did not like the sound of Roxanne's graphic scheme. Most of all, they were enjoying the spectacle and crazy-hair Spitfire shooting off her hollow threats. Liz checked her watch: she was due back. "Sorry Rox. I'm back on shift now. If I don't see you before, I'll see you tonight. 'Kay?" Roxanne didn't reply. She just shrugged her shoulders before returning to her scrubbing. Honestly, Liz was somewhat relieved that she didn't have to listen to Roxanne's ranting. But she did wonder how long it would be before she snapped. Liz truly hoped it was just Roxanne doing her usual thing. This time though, she was not so sure.