Defekt

by Nino Cipri

  Something under his skin moved.

  Derek looked at his reflection. His throat felt tight, like whatever was inside him had circled around his neck and was strangling him.

  “Repeat after me,” his reflection said. It looked infinitely calmer than he felt. Blood seeped out between its fingers, but the reflection looked unconcerned.

  What, Derek tried to say, but caught in the mirror’s gaze, he couldn’t open his mouth to speak.

  “How can I help you today?” the reflection said, in Derek’s normal voice. Derek’s mouth moved, forming the words along with it. But it seemed like the reflection was speaking alone; beneath the warm blood and slick shaving foam, his fingers couldn’t detect any vibration. And yet he could hear it.

  “How can I help you today? How can I help you today? If you sign up for the LitenVärld VIP membership, you’ll save twenty percent on this purchase and ten percent on all future purchases. Did you know that all purchases over a hundred and fifty dollars include free shipping? Do you want to sign up for our newsletter? Do you want to sign up for our newsletter? Sign up for our newsletter? If you spend fifty dollars today, we’ll include a coupon for a free jar of lingonberry jam. A human touch. A human touch in your time of need—”

  The cut on his throat yawned open beneath his fingers and gave a whistling shriek.

  Derek threw up in his sink. He turned the faucet on, messily splashing water onto his face to get rid of the foam and the blood. He looked at the mirror again, relieved to see that his expression matched his emotions; generally terrified, utterly confused. The cut on his throat was a thin line across his Adam’s apple, just at the top of where he’d been shaving. It seemed to have mostly closed up, with only a few dots of blood still welling from it. It was ugly, but it hadn’t opened up. It couldn’t have opened up.

  Derek cleared his throat and said in a soft croak, “What can I help you with today?”

  The voice was his, really his, not whatever stranger had been speaking from his reflection in the mirror.

  A hallucination.

  He left the razor in the sink, not looking at the traces of blood and shaving cream sliding toward the drain, and slapped a large bandage over the cut. After a moment’s thought, he pulled on a turtleneck to wear under his polo. It was well within company dress standards, even if his sky-blue polo now clung uncomfortably tight against his torso.

  * * *

  Derek arrived only four minutes early for his shift, which felt nearly like being late. He pushed his coat into one of the square metal lockers and drank in the familiarity of the breakroom: the lingering scent of reheated lunches and burnt popcorn, the view out the windows of the wide, snow-covered fields beyond the parking lot. He tried to shake the twitchy anxiety that still clung to him and get ready for the day.

  The opening shift meeting took place at the beating heart of the store: the customer service desk.

  Derek felt himself calming down as he walked through the winding labyrinth of showrooms; he’d always found it meditative, especially when there weren’t any customers, to walk past the empty rooms, which all seemed to stare back at him invitingly. They were small, controlled universes unto themselves, steady presences after an exceedingly strange series of events.

  Derek’s good mood abruptly derailed when he saw a showroom roped off with yellow CAUTION tape and PARDON OUR APPEARANCE! signs. Beyond the tape, the room was in total disarray. The chair was overturned, the modular shelving was leaning dangerously to one side with its contents strewn on the ground, and . . . was that dried blood on the ground?

  “Zahra!” he hissed. His coworker had walked past it with barely a glance. “What happened?”

  Zahra turned around to answer, but didn’t look up from her phone. “There was a wormhole yesterday. Customer went through, came back all jacked up. And only one of the associates they sent after her came back too. Apparently the other one, you know, ‘quit.’” She took her eyes off her phone long enough to add air quotes to the last word.

  That was how Derek found out Jules had disappeared into another universe.

  Derek didn’t have words to describe the feeling that left him with. Wormholes, or mashkhål as they were called in his handbook, were a rare but not unexpected phenomenon at LitenVärld. Their short entry, accompanied by oddly thrilling diagrams in the classic LitenVärld style, had ignited his imagination. He’d found himself longing for one to appear during particularly trying shifts, or when a coworker was rude, or when Tricia was harsher than normal in her feedback; the idea of being swallowed by another universe had its appeal, even while Derek knew he was too responsible to ever wander through a maskhål on purpose.

  Losing the only coworker he’d felt a connection with to one, however . . . The feeling was an echo of the wild loneliness that blanketed most of his mornings, but compressed into a single, super-heavy point behind his sternum. He pressed his fist against the spot, but pressure didn’t seem to alleviate it. It kept pulling his attention away from Tricia as she droned through the morning’s announcements and updates.

  “Derek.”

  His eyes snapped up from the floor. Tricia was staring at him. Everyone was staring at him. It startled him into a fight-or-flight response.

  “How can I help you today?” he said, his grin feeling alien on his lips.

  Someone snorted. Derek felt his smile wilt a little. His throat hurt.

  “Let’s talk before the doors open,” Tricia said. “In my office.”

  The super-heavy point ballooned.

  * * *

  Derek visited Tricia’s office regularly; there he received instructions and feedback, and occasional praise or rewards, like getting first pick among customer returns that couldn’t be resold. He knew he had no reason to be nervous—he was an excellent employee, he strove always to embody LitenVärld’s values, and he had a 4.74 average rating on customer satisfaction surveys. But anxiety swamped him as he followed Tricia back to her office, made his palms slick and shoulders tense. Pressure was building in his throat again, and he kept swallowing compulsively, trying to repress the urge to cough.

  “Did you enjoy your day off?” Tricia asked quietly. They were in the narrow hallway between her office and the breakroom.

  “I—” Derek had to clear his throat. “I was sick. It was a sick day.”

  Tricia smiled at him, but her eyes held a cold, contemptuous pity. “Are you sure?” she said. Her voice dropped to an intimate whisper. “You can tell me if it was just—whatever kids call it these days. A mental health day. We all need to skip work sometimes.”

  “I don’t,” replied Derek, frankly a little insulted. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

  Tricia stopped and turned to Derek, the force of her presence pressing him back into the dirty, scratched walls.

  “Listen, Derek,” she hissed. He was significantly taller than Tricia, but felt himself shrinking under her gaze. This close, he could see that Tricia had puffy bags under her eyes, inexpertly covered with the orange-ish foundation she wore, and her eyes were bloodshot behind the clumpy mascara. She would definitely benefit from her own mental health day.

  “I’m listening,” he said.

  “I’ve already got corporate breathing down my back because of the VIP program launch and the maskhål. You being sick is the last thing my quarterly evaluation needs.” She didn’t add the air quotes, but she said “sick” the same way Zahra had said “quit,” stretching meaning until it snapped.

  “Is—is this about the sick leave policy?” asked Derek. “Because I checked and—”

  “You’re not sick. You’ve never been sick, and you never will be. You needed a personal day for—whatever people do. You spent the day soul-searching or reading poetry or jacking off—”

  Derek sputtered, “That is highly inappropriate, and I don’t—”

  “Complain about it to the manager, then,” she hissed, silencing him as effectively as a slap across the mouth.

  Her gaze bored into him, waitin
g for a response. Derek didn’t dare look away, didn’t dare make a move. He had never felt so outwardly still, so inwardly chaotic.

  Whatever Tricia was searching for, it seemed to satisfy her. “Are we clear? You needed a day for . . . call it personal improvement,” she said. Her voice was softer now, gentle, soothing. “Repeat it,” she said.

  “Personal improvement,” Derek said. He winced as he did; the words seemed to open fissures in the walls of his throat, but his voice sounded normal.

  Tricia eased away from him, and Derek felt himself relax a little, the claustrophobia relenting as she put space between them. He tried to swallow, and pushed himself off the wall. “Is that all you wanted to talk about, Tricia?” he whispered hopefully. “Can I go back to the sales floor?”

  Tricia huffed impatiently. “I’m not the one you’re meeting with,” she said. “Come on.”

  Tricia’s entire demeanor changed when she opened the door to her office. The sharp, tense angles of her shoulders rounded, her head cocked at a friendly angle, and her smile went wide—wider than it ever did for customers or employees.

  “Hey, Reagan!” she said, and the woman standing by Tricia’s desk turned around. She was tall, white but with an even tan that seemed out of place in the Midwestern winter, wearing a well-tailored beige suit and heels. She was younger than Tricia, her hair a more natural shade of blond, her makeup a little more subtle. If Derek were asked to design a room for her, he would have put it in pastels and blush colors, overstuffed furniture, with throw pillows and blankets in nice neutral tones.

  “Hey, Tricia,” she said. Even her voice was soft—not in volume, but in texture. “Great to see you. I’m so sorry to drop in on you like this.”

  Tricia waved this off with a smile. “Totally understandable, given the circumstances. You know I’m always happy to—”

  “This must be Derek!” Reagan said, cutting her off. She’d swiveled her entire attention to Derek, and he felt himself freezing. Reagan had wide-set, doe-like brown eyes, but Derek felt a thrill of anxiety shiver through him just the same. The room he’d begun building for her suddenly went a little colder. He pictured stark, abstract photographs appearing on the peach-colored walls, dizzying close-ups that were frightening in their immediacy—like turning around and finding something had snuck up on you.

  Derek nodded. “That’s me,” he said, trying to smile without giving away how nervous he was.

  Reagan regarded him for a moment before slanting her gaze impatiently back to Tricia.

  “This is Reagan,” Tricia said. The cheer in her voice had become brittle. “From corporate.”

  “I work in Resource Management,” Reagan said. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I oversaw your orientation at HQ before you transferred to Tricia’s store.”

  Derek had no memory of meeting her, and that vague disquiet grew stronger at the word “orientation.” “I’m afraid I don’t,” he said, unconsciously standing a little straighter. The spot behind his navel seemed to get heavier. His throat was suddenly burning. He was so thankful he’d put on a turtleneck before coming in.

  Reagan shrugged, her smile growing wider. “That’s fine,” she said. “I’m happy to see that you’ve settled so well into your role here.”

  Derek let out a breath, relaxing minutely. His role here, yes. He could talk about that. “Oh, I love it here. I love my job. I’m so thankful to be here.”

  He only remembered afterward that his sincerity had a way of putting people off, making them suspicious. But Reagan beamed at him. “I’m so glad to hear that, Derek,” she said. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

  Derek sat down in the metal chair, wincing when its legs screeched across the concrete floor. Reagan went around and sat behind Tricia’s desk. Derek looked to see if Tricia would sit down next to him, but she seemed happy to stand by the wall, posture perfectly straight and attentive. Reagan ignored her, but Derek felt her presence behind him like a chill in the air.

  “Tricia said that you called in sick yesterday,” Reagan said, pulling out a manilla folder with a stack of papers in it. Derek wondered if it was his file: the only label on it was the letter D and a string of numbers.

  “Just needed a—” He had to clear his throat. “A personal day.”

  Reagan nodded. “Guess you missed all the excitement from the maskhål then.”

  “Unfortunately,” he replied.

  “Why is that unfortunate?” Reagan asked.

  “I . . .” Tricia’s presence behind him seemed to grow colder. “I would have volunteered if I had been there, and I regret that due to my absence a member of the team had to go in my stead. Especially since one of them didn’t come back.”

  Reagan glanced over his shoulder, back toward Tricia.

  “Walked off the job,” Tricia said coolly.

  “And is that why you requested a new FINNA?” Reagan asked sharply. “One of your employees wandered off with it?”

  Derek chanced a look behind him: Tricia’s smile was stricken and slightly twisted now. She looked caught out, but quickly shifted into wounded. “It was lost in a collapsing maskhål while that worker heroically dragged an unconscious customer—”

  “I read your report,” Reagan said, dismissing her. She fixed her gaze back on Derek. “Anyway, Derek. You missed work and one of your coworkers disappeared. How does that make you feel?”

  She clicked her pen and set the nib down onto the paper, preparing to take notes.

  Lonely, Derek thought. Loneliness so sharp that it felt like his throat would split from swallowing it.

  Reagan looked back up. “What was that?”

  Derek hadn’t spoken. Or at least, he hadn’t meant to speak, and his mouth hadn’t moved. “I didn’t say anything.”

  Reagan shared another look with Tricia over Derek’s shoulder.

  “I’m not sure how it makes me feel,” Derek said quickly. “Disappointed in myself, I guess. That I let everyone down.”

  Reagan smiled again, but it was smaller now, perfunctory. She looked behind Derek. “You can go back to the sales floor, Tricia,” she said. “I’ll let you know when we’re done here.”

  Tricia’s silence turned even frostier. Derek glanced at her quickly. She shot him an icy, venomous look before she turned to go, the thick heels of her Danskos clunking dully on the floor.

  When Reagan turned to look at him, he felt the force of her attention like heat prickling on his skin. He could feel sweat starting to gather in his underarms.

  “It’s normal to feel disappointed when you let your family down, Derek,” she said. “And we are a family, aren’t we?”

  “Of course,” he replied. “LitenVärld is my family.”

  Reagan was watching him carefully. Derek fixed his smile on his face, praying that it hadn’t faltered. Reagan flipped a page over in her folder, glanced down at it, then folded her hands over the paper so he couldn’t see what was written there. She leaned forward and said, “I’d like to ask you some questions, if that’s alright?”

  “Of course,” he replied.

  “Some of the questions might seem a little weird, but just know that there’s no right answer here. We just want to know what kind of baseline you’re operating on. Like a personality test!” she added. “Have you taken one of those before?”

  Derek nodded, a little more confidently; he’d taken a personality test as part of a mandatory team-building exercise a few weeks before Black Friday. “It told me that I was the Disciple,” he explained.

  Reagan nodded and checked something off on her sheet of paper before folding her hands back over it. “Good,” she said. “Let’s dive in. And remember: no wrong answers. What we really want here is an honest appraisal of yourself.”

  The questions that followed were . . . odd. Difficult. The pain in Derek’s throat turned sharper, grittier, as he confessed what kind of kitchen item he would be (a knife sharpener) and why (necessary, helps keep other tools at peak performance, able to take the sharpest cut
s and still do his job), or come up with five uses for a pencil besides writing (doorstop, fire kindling, hairstyling tool, fidget toy, or use the graphite to silence a squeaky hinge). What did he believe that very few other people did? (That hard work, kindness, and understanding would always be rewarded eventually, though not often in the short-term.)

  Some of the questions were genuinely upsetting.

  “If you were on a life raft with a nun, an old man, and a baby, and you had to throw one person off to save everyone else, who would you choose?” Reagan asked.

  “I . . . why do I have to choose? Why do I have to throw someone off the boat? Why can’t we fix the underlying problem?”

  “Answer the question,” Reagan said.

  “Wh-what background does each adult have? Do they have skills that—”

  “There’s no additional information,” Reagan said. “You have to choose one person on the boat to drown.”

  “Can any of them swim?” he asked. “Why can’t we draw straws?”

  “Time’s up, Derek,” Reagan said. “Who are you throwing out the boat?”

  Myself, Derek thought desperately, and this time he heard it; the word hung in the air between him and Reagan, softer than his normal voice and slightly muffled. He hadn’t said it. He’d locked his jaw around the word the moment it came into his mind. Something had spoken it anyway.

  Reagan looked up from the paper she’d been doodling on, bored with Derek’s agonizing.

  “Yourself?” she asked.

  “Who would you throw overboard?” he asked, feeling hotly embarrassed and full of dread.

  Reagan leaned back in Tricia’s chair, tapping her manicured nails on the glass top of the desk. Her expression was cool and blank, impossible to read. Derek felt a flutter of panic beneath his solar plexus. What did she want him to say? He couldn’t tell, and not knowing made him more nervous than anything else.

  “I’m supposed to be asking the questions,” she said. “But for the record: the baby.”

  Derek flinched. “What? Why?”

  “A baby can’t take care of itself. If everyone else died, so would the baby. Sentimentality isn’t an attractive quality in upper management.” She smiled brightly at him. “Besides, it’s all hypothetical. Who cares if a nonexistent baby drowns? Who’s going to mourn it? Its imaginary parents? The fictional nun and the old man?” She leaned forward. “You?”