On March 14th, a spot appeared on the screen of my left monitor at work.

At the time, it was a non-event, just a speck of dust or bug resting on the lens of

one of the exterior cameras, but it ended up being a defining moment in the downfall

of my life.

I worked at a company that I won't name, a small business in the warehouse district of

my city.

My job was a simple one that confined me to a desk, allowing me plenty of free time,

peace and quiet, and a plethora of benefits.

I was overnight security.

Four years were spent in an undecorated back office, sat at a desk of suitable size for

a dorm or bedroom.

On it were two monitors, one that displayed the exterior cameras, the other, the few interior

cameras that were solely on the warehouse and entrances.

There were plenty of blind spots in the building, but the company wasn't large or notable enough

to have any real fear of break-ins or theft.

In fact, in the four years I worked for them, the most notable thing I came across was

a drunk man falling asleep on the doorstep and waking up a few hours later with the most

bewildered look on his face.

That was until the spot appeared.

I'd stared at these cameras at their angles for hundreds of hours.

I knew precisely what each showed.

Every pixel was ingrained into my mind, appearing in my dreams due to their familiarity.

...