Chapter 3
Chapter
Every task feels overwhelming lately, even small things. And Erica doesn’t ease up. She walks over from her office to ask me why I can’t even write a simple email properly.
The hours under the buzzing lights weigh on me. The air itself seems tired, like the exhaustion of everyone who spent their days here coats the walls in a thin film.
My fingers wiggle, hovering above my keyboard.
Get yourself together, I write into the DM that’s just for me, the tunnel between work and whoever I am outside of it.
It’s not that hard.
It’s not that bad.
Hours tick by. A terse email from Erica lands, and the sting makes my eyes water.
And I see that girl again, the one who looks like me, a movie playing superimposed over the scenery of my cubicle. She’s mostly submerged, knees bent, only the top of her head above water. Mouth opening and closing.
There are lots of people around the pool—a group of friends laughing, a father and son talking, a guy applying sunscreen on his girlfriend’s back. But none of them are paying attention.
I feel like I’m drowning in shallow water, I type to myself in Slack, just to give it somewhere to go. Just for myself. And maybe for whoever has admin access, but whatever.
It’s funny to imagine some Slack administrator reading my dramatic messages, giggling out there on the other side of the void. So I type some more:
I feel like a hollowed out husk.
I feel so incapable of anything.
And a message pops up, suddenly.
sampaguita72:
What kind of attitude is that!
Oh God. Did I send this shit to someone? Or, total nightmare—did I post in a public channel? I lean closer and squint at the screen.
But it’s the same as before: ruby.ocampo at the top, green circle lit up next to it. And still there’s a message from someone else in there, where it’s not supposed to be.
sampaguita72:
You’re always so dramatic
It’s like the dodge ball team in second grade all over again!
I leap out of my chair with a yelp and send my keyboard flipping over itself.
My co-workers’ heads pop up at the sound of trouble. Morgan’s straw-blond hair and hazel eyes, the Concerned Mom Look I imagine she gives her kids. Al’s brows are raised, wrinkling his forehead.
Sarah stands in her cubicle. “You okay?”
“Haha!” I give them a weak laugh even though my heart is pumping like the bass to a bad techno song, the kind Tita Wendy would listen to when she’d take her turn picking us up from school. “Um. I saw a spider.”
I sink back down into my chair until my head ends up where my back usually rests.
It’s not like last time. The messages are still there—glowing brighter, if anything, like the pixels are trying to stick it to me.
Seventy-two. Mom’s birth year.
Sampaguita, her favorite flower.
Mom’s voice fills my head like the reverberation of a bell, saying Susmaryosep! I haven’t been to church in a while, but I cross myself.
I square my shoulders and begin to type.
ruby.ocampo:
Is this some kind of sick joke?
Maybe the IT guy has a cruel sense of humor.
ruby.ocampo:
I don’t know how you got access to this, but I’m taking screenshots! I’m reporting this to HR!
sampaguita72:
Report what? Your own mother? For checking up on you?
What?
sampaguita72:
For telling you not to give up so easily?
What what what what what?
The ache in my chest is spreading, like a spill on the floor I can’t blot fast enough with paper towels.
sampaguita72:
You kids are so sensitive these days. I thought I raised you better than that.
Don’t engage with it emotionally. Don’t think.
I take a dozen screenshots. And then for good measure, I take a bunch of photos too, before fumbling and dropping my phone on the desk. I flinch at the sound—I usually baby my phone because I didn’t buy the AppleCare. I know what Mom would have said: You could save that money by being more careful.