Behind the Painted Fence: Naked Truth, Chapter 30
Exposing the Hidden Cruelty of Toxic Work Environments
Is it you? Foxxy?" Martha asked, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
Foxxy didn’t reply but settled gracefully onto a patch of grass, fluttering her long eyelashes before licking her right paw. The glistening drops of amber liquid confirmed what Martha already suspected—Foxxy had found the saucer she had left out the night before. It was as if she had known a visit was imminent. And indeed, it was.
Meet the characters of the story here
MISS FOXXY IS BACK
Foxxy had arrived with fresh news—and, of course, for a bit of gossip about the not-so-old times.
Foxes of this particular lineage possessed a rare gift, a way of weaving whispers between generations. They were the keepers of many secrets.
Seeing Miss Foxxy was a mix of joy and an unsettling chill that ran down Martha’s spine. The very fact that Foxxy was still alive, given the circumstances, was nothing short of extraordinary—and in many ways, Martha saw herself reflected in her.
She remembered all too well the feeling of being hunted, that relentless anticipation of cruelty lurking in the shadows. The expectation of a sharp remark, cutting through the air like a ruthless blade, could come from anywhere—a dimly lit corner of the room, behind a stack of plywood or heap of furniture, or through the gap of a half-open door. It was a presence that never truly left her.
Apparently, Miss Foxxy had been chased again—this time with a sports firearm—by the Double-Headed Viper.
Martha could almost picture the scene: one head of the viper rattling the other, a whispered voice hissing from a repulsive mouth, spewing words that few could decipher. Yet, despite their ceaseless scheming and mutual loathing, the two heads were bound by the inescapable ties of blood.
How many times had one rescued the other from the hands of the local police? How much money had changed hands in exchange for silence? The full extent of their dealings would likely remain a mystery.
Miss Foxxy knew the answers. But she preferred to keep them to herself. Some truths were far too dangerous to share.
THE WILD BOAR
The Wild Boar was the hand that pulled the chestnuts from the fire—the enforcer, the one who handled the dirty work. If we were to borrow the language of a Mafia clan, he was part of the "cleaning" team.
And make no mistake—this was a clan. Ruthless, immensely cruel, and utterly exploitative.
Do you remember that wooden bench next to the gypsy wagon? That one with empty cups and plenty of cigarette buds? asked Miss Foxxy?
Martha exchange a sad look and whispered to herself - How could I not remember? It is the anchor to so many degrading, disempowering, gaslighting moments.
Her mind suddenly drifted to a line from a well-known Romanian novel, “Delirul” by Marin Preda—„Să nu uiți, Darie”—"Don’t you ever forget, Darie." A call to remember something essential, whether personal or historical.
HOW CAN ANYBODY FORGET?
How could she ever forget the deliberate humiliation inflicted by the Double-Headed Viper? How?
"Do you remember that day when you came back so happy after a challenging sequence of events in Birmingham and Manchester?" Miss Foxxy’s voice cut through the silence.
"I remember you stepping into the yard on that Monday morning. You had arrived home late on Saturday, and the truck followed on Sunday morning. The jobs were complex but flawlessly executed. The clients were singing your praises. You shared updates and pictures constantly, expecting at least a smile, a simple ‘well done.’ But nothing prepared you for the torrent of abuse that awaited."
The Double-Headed Viper sat at the table, already on their fifteenth cigarette, despite the early hour. Their harsh expressions made you uneasy as you approached.
Then, the words came. You froze.
You wanted to hide, to run, to scream—but you knew you couldn’t.
"When did the truck return from your jobs?" one of them asked, feigning ignorance.
"Yesterday morning, as I had already informed everyone," you replied.
"And did you check if someone would be there to unload it?" he continued, as if it had been *your* responsibility rather than the production manager’s.
"I communicated with the production manager. Everyone was aware—the schedule was displayed online."
"And where were you yesterday? Why weren’t you here unloading the truck?" His voice grew sharper, the anger in his posture barely contained.
You froze. No one had ever spoken to you like this before. The venom in his words was overwhelming. The sheer unfairness cut through you like shards of broken glass against bare skin.
"Get out of here! Go and work!" Those were his final words.
You felt like dying. Like resigning on the spot. But you knew you couldn’t afford to. It was only your third month in the job, and you ended up staying for another two and a half years.
You had no choice. You had to endure. And you did.
Your clients kept you going—the excitement of the projects, the trust of your suppliers and freelancers. They made a difference. But none of it could shield you from the daily firestorm. Every single day, you were in the firing line, constantly under threat, often attacked for no reason.
SURVIVAL
She remembered stumbling to her desk, climbing the stairs through a haze of darkness. She wanted to cry but knew she couldn’t. She forced herself to regain composure, even as she felt the blood drain from her face, her hands trembling, her throat tightening, her eyes burning with unexpressed tears. The dream of being part of an organization where she could grow and thrive had shattered in an instant.
The signs had been there from the very beginning—but she hadn’t wanted to see them.
Cruelty was in their blood. They fed off their employees’ energy like vampires draining the life from their victims.
Miss Foxxy had warned her before—to be vigilant, to run and never look back. Martha had known she couldn’t. She simply had to endure until she couldn’t anymore.
This was happening in a society where equality—in all its forms—was preached relentlessly. Yet, the gap between words and reality was staggering. It was just like that old Romanian saying: "Pe dinafară-i vopsit gardul, înăuntru-i leopardul." On the outside, the fence is painted; on the inside, a leopard lurks.
Is this a unique case? Martha knows it’s not. It never fails to amaze her how many times she comes across variations of her own story, how people almost normalize such situations. The law exists—at least on paper—but she often finds herself asking: “Is this the result of years of so-called democracy?” “Is this what freedom truly means?” Being cruel to your employees, exploiting them relentlessly, using and abusing people.
Well, my dear reader, I’ll share some of the Communist-era stories, and then we can compare notes.
Until next time, be well!
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