The Brutal Nature of my Job

I'm getting ready in the morning, suitably attired for an 8-hour shift in the office and dressy enough to meet Li Wern for dinner and giggles in the evening.

Putting on a flowery skirt and curling my eye lashes, I step back in satisfaction as I survey my appearance in the mirror.

It's 9.15am, which means I'm running late as usual and would have to resort to cabbing it to work.

No biggie, especially since my tight skirt means climbing the overhead bridge would be a minor inconvenience.

Suddenly, my phone "beeps" and my heart skips a beat.

No one texts me this early.

No one, that is, except my early-riser of a boss.

True to form, it's a message from my boss. Change of plans today. He needs me to check out a hotline call, a suicide.

Glancing back at the mirror, my bright pink skirt stands out inappropriately for such an assignment.

Sighing, I change into sensible black pants, mentally putting aside my brown chocolate heels in exchange for sensible black walking shoes.

Half an hour later, I find myself at the scene of the suicide. A police tent is erected at the foot of the HDB flat, presumably covering a dead body.

Turns out the hotline caller didn't sending us on a wild goose chase, which has happened before.

A large group of people have congregated, surrounding an elderly woman who's screaming and crying, shouting incoherent phases in the direction of the body.

I stay back, surveying the scene, trying to decide how best to approach the family.

A family member breaks away from the pack and I stalk her as she climbs three flights of stairs to her house.

I call out, startling the woman. My sensible black shoes make no sound.

Obviously distressed, I gently ask for her identity, and she says she's the deceased's daughter-in-law.

Swallowing my own revulsion, I then ask about the deceased, trying to piece together the identity of the man, and the reasons for his sudden death.

The woman stutters and breaks up, offering pieces of information, but eventually directs me to her husband, the man's eldest son.

I approach the son cautiously, who's with his brother and sister-in-law.

I have to switch to my weaker language, Mandarin, and attempt to coax more info from the grieving family, staring straight into 3 pairs of red eyes swollen from crying.

Their father was old and sick, I learn. He moved away to a nearby estate many years ago but came back to his old home to end his life. Stricken with multiple illnesses, unable to eat solid food, living on milk and pain, the man somehow managed to walk many streets to his old home.

Snapping out of their dazed confession, one son extols and pleads with me not to report the story, as it's a personal family matter. Besides, death probably brought their father a sense of release from all the pain and suffering, says another son.

Knowing that I can make no such promise, all I can do is say over and over again, "I'm sorry".

And in my heart, I know that if I was in the same situation, I would have screamed at any insensitive reporter.

I head back to the office with a heavy heart.

Story written, broadcasted, published for all.

And I'm left contemplating over the brutal nature of my job, which makes my life and emotions unpredictable.

A perfectly sunny day may start out brightly, but can change in a snap.

I'm just doing my job, so why do I feel like such a beast?