“Look, Freddy Krueger came to work today!” Davidson shouted, slamming his hand on the table and making the plates rattle. “Hey, monster! Bring more coffee over here, but be careful not to spill it with those burnt hands.”
The cruel laughter echoed through Ray’s Diner like an emergency siren. All eyes turned to Kesha, who held the coffee pot with perfectly steady hands, despite the scars that spread from her fingers until they disappeared under the sleeve of her white uniform shirt.
Kesha Johnson was 34 years old and had faced much worse than the insults of Davidson and his crew of mediocre executives who showed up every Tuesday to “brighten” her day. What they didn’t know was that every cruel word only fed something inside her that grew in silence a strength they could never understand.
“I bet it was in a fire in the ghetto,” whispered Brett, Davidson’s accountant, loud enough for her to hear. “Or maybe she was trying to....Read Full Story Here………………….
