After Hours
Ever since last year's Christmas party, my life at the office hasn't been the same.
The first few days after the "incident", as I've taken to calling it, I could barely bring myself to come into work at all. The following few weeks, I had tried to stay as inconspicuous as possible. I had to get used to the whispers whenever I frequented the ladies room, and the muffled laughter as I passed someone in the hall. I even grew used to the stares I received in the company breakroom.
A good piece of advice: never get too drunk at a company party, at least... not too drunk that you try and make out with your married boss, especially when his wife is sitting at the table beside him.
So, as you can probably guess, I wasn't filled with joy or excitement when I received the dreaded annual invite in my inbox. What I did feel was that all-too-familiar feeling of anxiety prickling at my stomach.
I let out a long breath through my lips, a technique I learned in my weekly therapy sessions. It did help. Somewhat.
"Are you alright, Trish?" That was Jessica, my coworker and one of the only friends I had left in the office.
I give her a reassuring smile, "Yeah, don't worry. Everything's fine."
She doesn't seem to buy it though, because the next second she's rolling her neon green swivel chair across the narrow hall and right into my cubicle.
"It's me, Trish. What is it?" she asks.
She doesn't even wait for a response, and instead leans over my shoulder to glance at my computer screen. When she sees the subject line of my most recent email, she winces sympathetically.
"Well..." she says, and I can see the gears turning in her head, trying to think of something positive to say. There isn't.
"Look, it doesn't really matter. I'm not going." I say, exiting my email with a loud click.
Jessica's brown eyes widen imperceptibly, as if she's really shocked that I would choose to avoid the chance to embarrass myself for a second time.
"But you have to go," she says, "what happened last year is old news. You can't just avoid every office party until you retire... or quit... whatever comes first. You have to face your fears at some point."
When I don't say a word, she shoves my shoulder.
"Quit it. I'm trying to work here." I say, shoving her back, "and why do you care, anyway?"
"Because," she whines, "I can't go to this party alone."
I roll my eyes, "Gee, thanks. Hey, why don't you ask Jeff to go with you?"
I can almost see the face she's making, even with my back turned. It's no secret that every woman in the office has a crush on Jeff Goodacre, the best consultant in our office. He has that perfect polished look about him; clean hair, shaven, crisp collar, great smile. He's clever and polite to a fault. Probably the best consultant in the whole damn company.
Sometimes he seemed just a little too perfect. But aside from Jess, he's the only one who's shown me any kind of compassion or civility since the incident last Christmas.
Jessica scoffs loudly, "as if he wouldn't already have a date. Or three." A sigh, "but... I guess a girl can dream."
It's now quarter past five, and most of my colleagues have already left for the day. Jessica pulls on her puffer jacket and her gloves, her long blonde hair draped over her shoulder.
"Are you coming?" she asks, pausing at my desk.
"No, I have to finish some of these reports first. I should be done within the hour."
She shrugs, and then blows me a little kiss, "get home safe."
"You too."
An hour goes by and the remaining few people working have long since left. Most of the lights on my floor have been shut off, and the glow from my computer screen now seems insanely bright in the relative darkness.
I'm always struck by how quiet it gets without all the regular chatter and work noise. The only sound that can be heard is the low hum of the air conditioning and the clicking from my keyboard.
A wave of exhaustion washes over me, and as I think about the forty-five minute drive ahead of me, I decide it's probably time to wrap up and head home. But first I need to use the restroom.
As I'm exiting the ladies room, I hear a sound coming from down the hall. It sounds like the staircase door being opened.
I step out of the little enclave where the restrooms are and peer down the dark hallway. It's empty. I worry for a moment that the tiredness is getting to me, but then I hear footsteps. Thud, thud, thud.
Someone else is definitely here.
I wait, listening. From the corner of my eye, I see a man walking through the row of cubicles. I catch sight of his face in the glow of my computer screen as he passes by my desk.
It's Jeff.
I breathe a sigh of relief, realizing that a small part of me worried it was an intruder.
I'm about to call out to him, let him know that I haven't just forgotten to shut down my computer for the day but was trying to finish up some work.
My voice falters when I notice the look on his face.
He's... smiling. But not a happy or even pleasant smile. It's mocking. Mean. And I know that I've become the office pariah this past year, but Jeff never saw me like the others did.
Or rather, I thought he didn't. Now I'm not too sure what to think. I watch in disbelief as he sits down at my desk and begins scrolling through my work. His shoulders are tense and his head is drawn low. His face contorts.
I can't help but jump when his fist comes crashing down on the keyboard. He begins muttering. Through a string of curse words, he mentions the party last year, our boss, my drinking. Calls me a tramp.
Instinctively I reach into my pocket to grab my keys, but my heart drops when I realize they're still sitting in my purse in the desk drawer, along with my jacket. Hopefully he doesn't notice them and realize I'm still here.
As if he can hear my thoughts, he spins around. I push myself flush against the wall, hoping he doesn't notice me. I hold my breath, blood pounding in my ears.
I've never felt this scared in my life. It's as if all the muscles in my body are wound like coils, just waiting to spring.
A few moments pass, and I hear the door to the staircase being opened again. I peek around the corner.
The office is empty. Jeff is gone.
I hurry back to my cubicle and collect my things, fingers fumbling to pull on my jacket as I head to the elevator. No way in hell am I taking the stairs.
I watch anxiously as the buttons light up on the elevator panel. Third floor, second floor, first floor... basement.
The elevator doors barely have a chance to open before I'm stepping off into the parking lot. A wave of relief washes over me when I spot my green Toyota Camry fifty feet away.
I reach into my purse to grab my keys, and falter. The pocket is empty. My keys are gone.
October 15th
You talk in your sleep. Did you know that? Last night it was about the fire again. You never told anyone what really happened in that basement. Don't worry - your secret is safe with me. For now.
I like watching you make coffee in the morning. Two sugars, splash of cream. Always waiting exactly four minutes - watching that timer tick down on your phone like it's some kind of ritual. Like it will keep the memories away. It won't.
You should really fix that bedroom window. The one that sticks when it rains. Sometimes it opens on its own at night. Sometimes I have to close it for you.
October 18th
Your mother called again. You always turn your phone face-down when she calls, like you can make her disappear. But we both know the real reason you won't talk to her. Does she still ask about that summer? About what happened to Claire?
The bruise on your shoulder - the one you think you got from bumping into the door frame? That wasn't the door. You thrash a lot in your sleep now. I have to be more careful when I get close.
I left you a gift today. You haven't found it yet. It's in that shoe box you never open, the one shoved under your bed. The one with the photos you pretend don't exist. I put it right next to them.
October 23rd
I dug up your old diary today. The real one. Six feet deep, right next to Whiskers. Remember how you told everyone he ran away? Such a convincing little liar you were.
Still are.
You wrote about the shadows you used to see in your closet. The ones that moved when you were alone. Smart girl - you knew they were real. You just stopped looking.
We've met before, you know. Many times. You were too young to remember the first time. I made sure of that.
October 24th - 3:17 AM
You're sleeping now. Peaceful, finally. The pills help, don't they? But they can't keep me out.
I'm sitting in that chair in the corner of your room. The one that belonged to your grandmother. Did you know she died in it? The nursing home lied about that too.
I should leave. The sun will be up soon. But first, I need you to understand something: I'm not writing these words to scare you. I'm writing them because soon you'll become exactly like me. It's already starting. Haven't you noticed the gaps in your memory? The hours you can't account for?
Look at your hands when you wake up. Really look at them. That's not dirt under your fingernails.
Soon you won't need to sleep at all.
“Do you ever speak to Jeff?”
Jeff, eugh. What’s there to say about Jeff? Well, first off, I hate him. I’m two-faced, in a British sort of way, and I make friends easily, but in truth I judge people too harshly. Getting my approval isn’t easy. I know it’s bad form but also, in a British sort of way, I am proud and traditional and refuse to change; even to fix one of my biggest flaws.
Jeff joined the group much later than I. He walked into our little safe circle looking dishevelled with a sad, sort of puppy dog look. The nurturers among us immediately fell for him. He was relatively handsome, but I found everything to be somewhat rehearsed. For one thing, having a five o’clock shadow and wearing a loose t-shirt doesn’t make for an alcoholic.
His skin was too perfect, his eyes were bright and wide, he smelled decent, and it took him almost no time to engage in the program. Myself, I was able to hide most of it with careful curation, but the droop in my right eye gave things away. He is too clean. He spends all his time talking to women and seems to have a permanent gaggle following him around. They’re fluttering around him now in the corner, no doubt.
I came out for a smoke break. I can only take so much of being around that many people before I start to spiral and need to step out. I guess the only time I was ever confident in a large group was when I was drunk. The time it takes my social clock to run out drastically falls when Jeff shows up.
“You’re a million miles away. Should I be worried?”
“Huh?” I said, coming around from my stupor. “Oh, sure. I have talked to him.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Should I be worried about you? You’ve been a bit on edge recently.”
“Nah, I am golden. What were you going to say about Jeff?”
“After his relapse a few weeks ago, he has really turned it around. It’s quite impressive really…”
Sandy kept talking, but I knew I had lost her trail immediately. I can’t get this guy out of my head. Just as it seemed that the attention he was getting had begun to die down, he came to the session looking almost identical to the day that he joined. Even his hair was tousled the same way, like he had used something to style it that way. Then a week later, he was back and calling it a momentary lapse in judgement.
I am so sick of this. I don’t believe any of it. He is so obviously trying to vie for attention. I know I can get obsessive, and I know I should probably ignore the compulsion to take this any farther than I already have but something has already snapped in my head. I know that I am going to follow him. I have to.
After the session and after a little small talk, Jeff decides to leave behind his gaggle, declaring that he ‘has to be up for a big meeting tomorrow’. I get into my little red Fiesta and tap her on the dashboard.
“We’re gonna go check him out, girly. Play nice now, ya hear?”
She responds by starting first time; it must be fate. I make sure to leave before he can get to his car. I always park around the corner from the centre, as I don’t want people to know my personal details. It’s probably true that most people who have trust issues have either been hurt or have something to hide. In my case, it’s probably both.
Walking to my car, I start to plan out the steps in my head. Tonight is just to check out where he lives, or where he hangs out. I’ll keep my distance and observe for now. By instinct I reach to the glove box and when I open it to see it empty, void of alcohol, I shake my head and try to refocus myself.
“Come on. Don’t do this, you know it won’t end we—”
Jeff’s car interrupts my thought as it pulls out of the lot and turns away, onto the street. I close the box, strap in, and set my hands to ten and two. I follow behind, but at a distance, taking no risks this early on. I lose some distance at the lights but keep on him halfway across town. I turn my heating on, and Girly does her best, but she is old and the cold night-air drifting in from some unseen hole bites at my feet.
He turns off the street to the backside of a building I don’t recognise. I park up a short distance away and turn my keys, shutting the car down and going into sleuth mode. He steps out of his car and checks himself out in the mirror, smoothing his hair into place and rubbing something into his wrists.
“Where the hell are you going?”
This wasn’t his home, that’s for certain. Has to get up early tomorrow, hm? I watch him get out of his car, then perform a quick scouting look before heading down a dark passageway and through a door. Not wanting to get out of my car, I decide to check out the front of the building by driving around, but as I do, I see a man rolling out a metal keg and placing it behind a dumpster.
“A keg?” I shake my head. “No freaking way. Is this a bar?”
Incredulous and filled with an unreasonable anger, I grab my phone and get out of my Fiesta.
“Wait here, Girly.” I say, patting her roof. As soon as I step out, I can hear the gentle thump thump thump of bass that tells me it’s a lively joint. I traipse over to the back of the building, doing my best to take soothing breaths, but each step slams to the stone in time with the bass fuelling my rage.
I reach the door and am hit in the face by the acrid tang of old beer pooling near the empty kegs and it stops me in my tracks. I am frozen in fear. What am I thinking? I can’t go in there, that would be it for me. This whole idea is stupid. I move to leave but as soon as I turn away; the fury left in me melts into that obnoxious obsessive voice and I am frozen again, caught between two ideas.
I settle for a compromise and walk away from the smell to Jeff’s car. Eugh, Jeff. Even his car is too nice. I lean against the driver-door, facing the door down the dark passageway I saw him go through earlier. My laboured breathing lets out my fury in short, puffy clouds into the cold air of the evening. Time passes and my hands grow cold. I alternate between blowing on them, rubbing them together, and squirreling them away in deep pockets.
The door opens once as a false alarm, when two guys leave. The one man had his arm around the waist of the other, but he quickly shrinks it away as he notices me. They keep their heads down as they go. What was that about? A gay bar? Then why does he spend all his time flirting with the women?
I am contemplating leaving, realising I am delving into things I have no business knowing, but torn between that, the betrayal of trust, and my obsessive impulses driving me to probe further. I am about to retreat when the door opens and stood in the passageway is Jeff.
“What the hell are you doing here?” He calls out, stomping over to me.
“Me? What the hell are you doing here, Mister Momentary Lapse?”
“You followed me? What are you, some kind of stalker?”
“You know there are other, non-alcohol driven ways to pick up guys?”
I pull out my flip phone.
“What is this? Are you going to take a picture? Did someone hire you?”
“Hire me? What are you talking about? This doesn’t even take pictures, it’s just some crumby burner phone I use for meetings.”
“So, what is this? Are you obsessed? Stalking?”
“You?!” I fake a laugh. “You’re not my type.”
His demeanour changes and he slumps his shoulders and moves to lean against his car with that sad puppy dog look in his eyes again.
“So, who else knows?”
“Nobody. I just knew there was something off about you.” I turn away from him to walk towards my car. “I am going to tell Jackson, though. Not about the gay-part, I couldn’t give a damn, but he should know if someone is trying to cheat the program. It’ll be better that way.”
I feel a touch of sympathy for his situation and hear him shift behind me. “You know, you don’t need to lie to anyone here about th—” I turn back to see Jeff, a calm empty expression on his face as he swings some kind of piping in a wide arch towards my head. There is no time to realise what happened, or even feel the impact. Everything just… goes black.
Pro’s, not Prose
Ah, so you write eloquent prose.
Full of idioms and metaphors, I s'pose.
You show but don't tell, oh my!
Yet don't reveal until the end is nigh.
Words you count as you type,
Or write. Are they enough? I hear you gripe.
Flash, Short, Novel, Novella, what-have-you!
Struggle to know where it fits, don't you?
Protagonists, and heroes, and their journeys
You add backstories by the gurneys.
Rising action and climax are fun
But the middle rues if it'll e're be done.
But look at us, the poets and the bards.
Writing verse is its own reward.
There's rhythm, a flow, and there's rhyme
And can be finished, literally, in no time.
Just so we can nail the last one
We, as rhymers, are not yet done
For we can also write it as prose
Now that should rub it in your nose.
Warm baths and quiet nights
And so I stuck my fingers betwixt my eyes, in the area where the nose’s bridge ends and the eye begins. The pitter patter of the shower as it hit my skin lulled me to a familiar feeling of solitude, and presence within the mind. The water jumped from my vessel every which way as I rubbed the droplets out of my eyes. My body sagged with comfortable tiredness, as the water slowly rose in the tub, blanketing me as it went.
