The Face in the Mirror
I watched him walk to the door. I knew time was running out, but I resisted the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and began counting in reverse under my breath.
Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.
He paused when the count reached five. For a moment, time froze. My mouth kept moving, slow and heavy, as if a camera were hanging in the air, focused only on my lips forming four. When they parted again for three, he slipped out. A loud click echoed through the room.
I collapsed on all fours. Sweat tore down my face and pretended to be tears, and the smile stretching across my mouth was anything but happy. Wiping my face with my palms, I crawled into the restroom. I turned on the tap, lowered my head under it, and shut my eyes as the water rushed down.
Cleanse me, I muttered.
I gulped water, spat it out, and went still again. I wondered what it was that needed cleansing in me.
It began a week ago, when I was enrolled in the program. The Chief had called me aside and said my performance had become iffy, not matching the standards I had set for myself. I asked him what made him think so. He handed me a report.
In it were detailed descriptions: me standing at the water cooler with an overflowing glass; holding an unlit cigarette in my mouth for minutes; referring to a female colleague as a male through an entire conversation; listening to music through headphones with the jack unplugged. And more.
I stared at the page, stunned. When I looked up, the Chief gave me his usual reassuring smile, placed a hand on my shoulder, and told me about the program. I nodded, walked back to my desk, placed the file in my drawer, and locked it.
He had given me only an address. No explanation. So the next day, I stood inside an upscale apartment complex, announcing my appointment through the intercom. The reluctant security ushered me in. For a moment I wondered if this was actually the Chief’s home, if this was where he finally planned to talk about that big idea he always hinted at.
The thought ended quickly.
A gentleman opened the door. There was no other word for him. He directed me to a two-seater sofa while he took the single-seater. He asked me how I was. I replied that I felt good, too good for the company to send me to a shrink.
He smiled, shrugged, and said he was only doing this for the money. For the next seven days, he said, I should call him Mr. P. I sneered and told him to get on with it even though the entire thing was unnecessary. He reminded me he had to submit a report on the seventh day, regardless.
By day three, something had shifted. I had started talking. Everything came out, and somehow his total lack of emotional investment made me share more. He cared for nothing except money, yet the moment people dropped their miseries onto him, they walked away lighter, and he walked away richer.
I told him about my relationship troubles. He did not flinch. I told him about my reluctance to join this program and about the strange behaviour I had apparently been displaying. For the first time in three days, something changed in his eyes. A twinkle. He was suddenly interested.
My words continued, but my mind drifted. Why today? Why now? It was then that I noticed the file next to him.
My file. The same blue folder from my locked drawer.
Yesterday was day five. I had been silent the entire fourth day. I entered, sat down, read a book, scrolled through my phone, and left. Not a word spoken.
I intended to repeat it on day five, but the door was locked. The neighbour laughed when I asked for “Mr. P” and told me he had left for three days on urgent work.
For reasons I still cannot explain, fear and surprise struck me together.
I returned to office and stared at my drawer. The file was gone.
Paranoia arrived without warning.
Why had people watched me for a whole month? Had it been more than a month? What had they seen? What had they missed? Were they watching me right now? Was the shrink listening? Taking notes?
Why were there so many questions and no answers?
Today I broke into the apartment. I had slipped out of my house a little after midnight, parked five blocks away, and moved along the walls of the complex. The security guard was asleep. The gate was slightly open. I ran quietly past him into the apartment. Technically, that does not count as a break in though.
The place looked temporary, like Mr. P lived out of a suitcase. I searched for the blue folder, slow and silent. Then, at dawn, to my horror, the door lock turned.
I squeezed myself into a small crevice beneath the sofa.
He walked in, bathed, took his time dressing, and paused at the door. Everything that happened next was what I described at the start.
I was drenched now but relieved that I had the apartment to myself for a few minutes. Enough time to clean up and leave. I opened the door.
Mr. P stood there.
And beside him was the Chief.
The Chief looked at me for a long moment. Then he walked inside and took a seat on the two-seater. Mr. P joined him and gestured for me to sit on the single-seater.
I sat, still dripping. Mr. P placed the file beside me and began to speak. The company was spinning off a new division, he said. They needed someone from within to head it. I was on the shortlist. They had asked my peers to give honest assessments. Among the reports, they had selected the strangest habits, but when matched with the full context, it was clear that nothing was actually wrong.
The file had been given to me intentionally. The psych evaluation was part of the process. And because I had remained composed during everything, even after seeing the file with Mr. P, he had cut the seven-day evaluation short and submitted a glowing report.
The Chief smiled. They were here today to congratulate me.
I looked at Mr. P. Then at the Chief.
I stood up, took the towel by the washbasin, wiped my face, turned toward the mirror, and burst into uncontrollable laughter at the face staring back at me.
(originally written on Sep 30, 2015; edited for 10th year anniversary)
