It Wasn’t Me

I strolled into the office bathroom, like any ol’ uneventful day, when—BAM—I was hit with the kind of stench that slaps the soul right outta your body. A smell so vile, so apocalyptic, it could literally take the life of a newborn. It was that bad. But I had no choice… I had to pee.

Strategically thinking, I leaned back into the hallway, took the deepest breath my lungs could physically handle and marched in to battle.

It became instantly clear: I had wildly underestimated the length of this operation. My oxygen reserve was depleting fast. My face? Bright red. My pride? Fading. The choice was now between slowly suffocating or inhaling this demonic air and risking internal organ failure. Honestly, both outcomes felt plausible. But hope springs eternal, so I cracked open the vault and let the poison air flood my system.

By the time I got to the sink, things were bleak. I braved a breath, and gagged. I was this close to freedom, but I already knew I couldn’t go back to my desk like this. No, I needed to go home, bathe in bleach, and burn everything I was wearing. The smell had bonded with me. We were one now.

Finally, I cracked open the door and was met with the crisp, slightly-stale office air—an air I had never appreciated more in my entire life. It wasn’t even fresh. But compared to the ninth circle of hell I had just escaped? It was paradise.

I turned the corner, and a colleague walked by.

Hmm. He’s headed… toward the bathroom.

Do I warn him? Do I save him from the horror?

Wait.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

There’s only one thing down that hallway.

He knows where I just came from.

He’s gonna think it was me. That I was the one who unleashed Satan’s cologne in there.

This cannot be my legacy.

I have to say something. Something subtle but clear. Like, “Dude, REEKS in that bathroom.”

But it’s too late. He’s already past me. Probably inside by now. The window has closed. My name is forever etched into his memory with the same scent I was forced to endure.

It wasn’t me. I swear.

IT WASN’T ME.