- Local time
- Today 12:14 AM
- Messages
- 3
- Pronouns
- She/Her
I sat in the car, the engine still humming softly as I stared across the parking lot, waiting. Steeling myself for what was to come. On the street behind me, a car honked, tires squealing, and I flinched. This isn't helping, I thought. I took a deep breath, then adjusted the mask- the one with the porcelain skin and painted smile that reached the cheerful eyes. The mask that made me look like them, like a person, the one that hid the dark, blank, featureless truth beneath it.
I swung open the door, snatching the purse from the seat beside me and getting out of the car before I lost my nerve. The car, not my car. It's wasn't mine, not really. It was hers, before I killed her. It was an accident- I hadn't meant to do it. But I'd taken her car anyway, and her house. And now here I was, pretending.
As I walked across the parking lot, I straightened the uniform I was wearing. Black shirt, black pants, black apron. It suited me, in a way, as black as the formless nothingness it hid. That, at least, was more comfortable than the mask.
"Just six hours," I told myself, repeating it like a mantra. "Six hours of pretending. I can handle that."
See, apparently not me was a waitress. It wasn't a glamorous job, wasn't one that required any real skill or training. But maybe that was a good thing. And no one really looked at those who work in customer service anyway, right? They wouldn't notice my unease, wouldn't notice the way the painted-on smile never budged, the expression never changed.
I slipped in the backdoor quietly, nodding to the only cook who noticed my arrival. In the tiny break room, really just a hallway with a few coat hooks, I hung the purse, hiding it amongst the heavy winter coats everyone else had worn into work today. I hadn't even felt the cold, hadn't bothered with one. I would have to remember to tomorrow, or people would start getting suspicious.
That done, I headed to the front to clock in. The manager was there, the first real test of my disguise. He barely looked at me, though, and saw only what he wanted to as he told me the goals for the day and signed the slip I would give to the hosts so that they would start giving me tables.
It didn't take long for them to start coming. First, the couple with the little girl who stared at me with such big eyes every time I approached the table. She was scared of me, I could sense it. Perhaps she could see what her parents did not, that I wasn't who I pretended to be. But to the adults, I was just another server, someone to bend to their whims for the promise of a few dollars.
What sad work. I wondered why people would ever choose to do this. Perhaps, like me, they had fallen into it because of the circumstances they'd found themselves in. They certainly didn't seem to enjoy it as I listened to them from afar in the back room, complaining about the tables, the tips, the bills they wouldn't be able to pay if the restaurant didn't get busier.
It dragged on, exhausting. The mask felt so heavy, weighing me down. But I couldn't take it off, couldn't let them see. I had no other life to turn to but the one I had found myself in, and I was too scared to lose it. So I persisted, pretended, until my replacement arrived and I was finally free to check out for the day and head home. At the register in the front, I quietly counted out the cash I'd been paid and handed it over to the girl behind the register.
"Alright, you're good to go," she said quietly- too quietly. Almost like she knew something she shouldn't. "I'm glad you're back- and that you seem to be doing okay. Have a good night."
I don't remember what polite nothings I mumbled- I just remembered wanting to get away from her as quick as I could, worried her words meant something deeper, that she could see through the mask, see that it wasn't real. I couldn't let it slip, not here. I think I sped on the way home, but I don't remember how fast. I just remember keeping a nervous watch for police cars, worried that they would see me, stop me. I feared that there would be one at the house when I got there, waiting for me.
But when I pulled up outside, I was alone. The house was dark, empty. I fumbled with the keys, dropping them in the snow beside the door and having to fish them out again. My hand was numb- I really should have worn a coat, or gloves.
Inside, I didn't even bother to turn on the lights. I hung the keys and purse on the hooks beside the door by the faint glow coming through the window from the street lights out front. In the dark, I didn't have to look at the pile of letters and bills piling up on the mail table, or look at the mass of floral arrangements scattered across the dining room table. I could feel the rustling underfoot, though, of the wilted, fallen petals and leaves that had been knocked loose by the rush of wind that had come through the door when I'd entered. I didn't need light to know that the flowers were all dead, that I should throw them out already. But I liked the faint tang of decay in the air, and there was no one else around to be bothered by them.
In the kitchen, I pulled open the fridge, scanning the food inside. Expired, expired, expired. What that lumpy thing in the casserole tray in the back was, I didn't know, but I was confident that the blue fuzz on top was mold. Even just shaking the milk jug was enough to show that it was chunky. I hadn't been to the grocery store since I'd gotten this house. Maybe I could make a trip with the $23 in tips I'd stashed in my purse at the end of my shift, if I could get away with putting off the bills for longer. I sighed and shut the door. It didn't matter that there was nothing to eat- I wasn't really hungry anyway.
Upstairs, I finally reached the bedroom, peeling off the uniform and finally, blessedly taking off the mask, pulling on a comfy nightgown before falling into bed, exhausted. Then the noise startled me, a plaintive meow from across the room. And then there he was jumping up on the bed and rubbing against me, making that strange rumbling sound that cats do. Small, and grayish-brown, with stumpy little legs and a loud voice and a tendency to lick my nose, like he was doing now. He was an annoying little creature, and yet, the only one who saw me like this, without the mask, and he was happy to see me anyway, let me wrap my arms around him and hold him tight, listening to the purring as I cried into his fur, sobbing until I felt there was nothing left in me to cry, until the emotions were all out and were replaced by a hollow emptiness. Until finally, exhausted, I feel asleep despite the knowledge in my mind that tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, and for as long as I could conceivably think of- the mask would have to go back on, and I would have to pretend again.
I swung open the door, snatching the purse from the seat beside me and getting out of the car before I lost my nerve. The car, not my car. It's wasn't mine, not really. It was hers, before I killed her. It was an accident- I hadn't meant to do it. But I'd taken her car anyway, and her house. And now here I was, pretending.
As I walked across the parking lot, I straightened the uniform I was wearing. Black shirt, black pants, black apron. It suited me, in a way, as black as the formless nothingness it hid. That, at least, was more comfortable than the mask.
"Just six hours," I told myself, repeating it like a mantra. "Six hours of pretending. I can handle that."
See, apparently not me was a waitress. It wasn't a glamorous job, wasn't one that required any real skill or training. But maybe that was a good thing. And no one really looked at those who work in customer service anyway, right? They wouldn't notice my unease, wouldn't notice the way the painted-on smile never budged, the expression never changed.
I slipped in the backdoor quietly, nodding to the only cook who noticed my arrival. In the tiny break room, really just a hallway with a few coat hooks, I hung the purse, hiding it amongst the heavy winter coats everyone else had worn into work today. I hadn't even felt the cold, hadn't bothered with one. I would have to remember to tomorrow, or people would start getting suspicious.
That done, I headed to the front to clock in. The manager was there, the first real test of my disguise. He barely looked at me, though, and saw only what he wanted to as he told me the goals for the day and signed the slip I would give to the hosts so that they would start giving me tables.
It didn't take long for them to start coming. First, the couple with the little girl who stared at me with such big eyes every time I approached the table. She was scared of me, I could sense it. Perhaps she could see what her parents did not, that I wasn't who I pretended to be. But to the adults, I was just another server, someone to bend to their whims for the promise of a few dollars.
What sad work. I wondered why people would ever choose to do this. Perhaps, like me, they had fallen into it because of the circumstances they'd found themselves in. They certainly didn't seem to enjoy it as I listened to them from afar in the back room, complaining about the tables, the tips, the bills they wouldn't be able to pay if the restaurant didn't get busier.
It dragged on, exhausting. The mask felt so heavy, weighing me down. But I couldn't take it off, couldn't let them see. I had no other life to turn to but the one I had found myself in, and I was too scared to lose it. So I persisted, pretended, until my replacement arrived and I was finally free to check out for the day and head home. At the register in the front, I quietly counted out the cash I'd been paid and handed it over to the girl behind the register.
"Alright, you're good to go," she said quietly- too quietly. Almost like she knew something she shouldn't. "I'm glad you're back- and that you seem to be doing okay. Have a good night."
I don't remember what polite nothings I mumbled- I just remembered wanting to get away from her as quick as I could, worried her words meant something deeper, that she could see through the mask, see that it wasn't real. I couldn't let it slip, not here. I think I sped on the way home, but I don't remember how fast. I just remember keeping a nervous watch for police cars, worried that they would see me, stop me. I feared that there would be one at the house when I got there, waiting for me.
But when I pulled up outside, I was alone. The house was dark, empty. I fumbled with the keys, dropping them in the snow beside the door and having to fish them out again. My hand was numb- I really should have worn a coat, or gloves.
Inside, I didn't even bother to turn on the lights. I hung the keys and purse on the hooks beside the door by the faint glow coming through the window from the street lights out front. In the dark, I didn't have to look at the pile of letters and bills piling up on the mail table, or look at the mass of floral arrangements scattered across the dining room table. I could feel the rustling underfoot, though, of the wilted, fallen petals and leaves that had been knocked loose by the rush of wind that had come through the door when I'd entered. I didn't need light to know that the flowers were all dead, that I should throw them out already. But I liked the faint tang of decay in the air, and there was no one else around to be bothered by them.
In the kitchen, I pulled open the fridge, scanning the food inside. Expired, expired, expired. What that lumpy thing in the casserole tray in the back was, I didn't know, but I was confident that the blue fuzz on top was mold. Even just shaking the milk jug was enough to show that it was chunky. I hadn't been to the grocery store since I'd gotten this house. Maybe I could make a trip with the $23 in tips I'd stashed in my purse at the end of my shift, if I could get away with putting off the bills for longer. I sighed and shut the door. It didn't matter that there was nothing to eat- I wasn't really hungry anyway.
Upstairs, I finally reached the bedroom, peeling off the uniform and finally, blessedly taking off the mask, pulling on a comfy nightgown before falling into bed, exhausted. Then the noise startled me, a plaintive meow from across the room. And then there he was jumping up on the bed and rubbing against me, making that strange rumbling sound that cats do. Small, and grayish-brown, with stumpy little legs and a loud voice and a tendency to lick my nose, like he was doing now. He was an annoying little creature, and yet, the only one who saw me like this, without the mask, and he was happy to see me anyway, let me wrap my arms around him and hold him tight, listening to the purring as I cried into his fur, sobbing until I felt there was nothing left in me to cry, until the emotions were all out and were replaced by a hollow emptiness. Until finally, exhausted, I feel asleep despite the knowledge in my mind that tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, and for as long as I could conceivably think of- the mask would have to go back on, and I would have to pretend again.