by Amy Cross
Finally, all I can do is scream.
Chapter Four
Today
You are a strong, competent human being.
“I am a strong, competent human being.”
Others see you the way you see yourself.
“Others see me the way I see myself.”
Project yourself out into the world, and others will recognize your strength.
“Project myself out into the world, and others will recognize my strength.”
“You're a feisty, fierce woman.”
I can't help cringing. That sounds so lame and cliched.
“I'm a... person trying to do a job.”
If you believe in yourself, you -
Suddenly the recording goes dead. Looking down at my phone, I see that the battery has died.
“Damn it,” I mutter, taking my earphones out as I hurry across the bedroom and quickly plug the phone into its charger.
It's 6:53am, which means I have to be out the door in seven minutes' time. I might just be able to get a little extra charge into the battery, just enough to keep me going on the bus to work. I was hoping to listen to the self-help guide one more time before leaving the apartment, but I guess I'll just have to go over the rules in my head and try to remember them.
Heading back to the mirror, I take a moment to straighten my collar before staring at my reflection.
“If I believe in myself,” I say firmly, trying to sound calm, “others will believe in me. I am not my past, I am...”
My voice trails off as I realize I don't quite remember the next line. I've been going over these same rules over and over again for the past week, but apparently they still haven't quite stuck in my head. I take a deep breath, trying to focus on the centering techniques I learned at that class last week, but after a moment I freeze as I spot a hint of fear in my own eyes.
I stand in silence for a moment.
If I can see the fear, then other people will see it too. I need to present myself properly, so that I at least look like somebody who's confident. After all, Chrissie says confidence is 50% about faking it anyway, and I guess Chrissie knows what she's talking about.
“You can do this,” I whisper. “People only see what you want them to see. You project your own self. People can't see your fears or your past, not when they look at you.”
I straighten my collar again.
I can do this.
***
For the first time in months, I have to ride the bus without listening to music.
Crammed into my seat near the back, with people shouting all around, I try to focus on staring out the window. It's a rainy Monday morning, and people are hurrying along the street with umbrellas. Even at a little after seven, London is already busy, and I'm honestly shocked by the sheer cacophony of sounds. With music playing on my phone, I usually zone out during the journey, but this morning I'm having to contend with people yelling over one another. Rather than fiddling with my phone, I'm actually looking out the window.
The bus grinds to a halt at a set of traffic lights, and I watch as some kids race past on their bikes.
And then I see him.
There's a man standing at the far end of the road, seemingly oblivious to the rain that's pouring down all around. His hands are raised, and he's holding what looks like a camera in front of his face. He's wearing a long beige trench-coat with black shoes, but that's all I can really make out since the camera is obscuring his features. As far as I can tell, the camera is pointing straight this way.
I wait for him to aim in another direction, or for him to finally notice the rain that's crashing down. He must be soaked.
A moment later, the lights change and the bus starts to slowly move forward. I keep my eyes on the man as we get closer, although there's a lot of rainwater running down the window and it's difficult to see outside properly. Still, as the bus passes the street corner, the man turns and keeps his camera aimed at me, even as the bus slowly drives right past him. For a few seconds, the man is just a couple of feet away. I stare straight into the lens of his camera before finally the bus crosses the junction and then stops at a crossing.
Looking back, I see that the man still has his camera aimed at me.
I've seen him before.
For the first time since it happened, I remember seeing a man watching me through a camera many years ago. I was a little girl, and I'd been crying because only two people had shown up at my birthday party. We were in a park back in my hometown, and I remember Chrissie's mother was talking to me when I suddenly noticed a man standing in the shade of some nearby trees. I was creeped out at the time, but I quickly forgot about him as I started opening my birthday gifts. Still, even though I know this is impossible, I swear the same man is out there right now, still training his camera on me as the bus waits at the crossing.
It can't be him, of course.
Twelve years later, the same man can't still be filming me. That'd be absurd.
A moment later, the bus starts moving forward again and the man disappears from view. I half expect to see him running this way, trying to catch up, but instead the bus simply rounds the next corner and finally I allow myself to settle back in my seat. For a few seconds I feel a little uneasy, but I quickly tell myself to focus on staying calm and centered. The guy with the camera was just a coincidence, and the last thing I need is to let myself get paranoid, especially right before my latest interview.
After all, I've been paranoid before, and that didn't end so well. I can't crack again.
Chapter Five
“And how do you think you're coping with the more stressful parts of the job?” Doctor Sawyer asks as she makes some more notes on her clipboard. After a moment she glances at me from behind her thick reading glasses. “Have any issues come up?”
“I think I'm doing alright,” I reply, forcing a smile even though my mind is racing with doubts. “Why? Has anyone said anything?”
“Do you think anyone would have said anything?”
“Have they?”
“Is there a reason why they might have?”
“Has someone said anything?”
“Would someone say anything?”
Realizing that she's trying to trick me, I hesitate for a moment. “I hope not.”
She stares at me, as if she expects me to suddenly break down and admit that I'm struggling, but finally she makes another note. As I listen to the sound of her pen scratching against the paper, I tell myself that there's no need to panic, although after a moment I realize the scratching is getting louder, as if the pen's nib might break through at any moment. Finally I crane my neck, trying to see what Doctor Sawyer is writing, but then I become self-conscious so I lean back.
“Has anyone said anything?” I ask finally.
“Relax, Jessica. You're doing fine. These questions are just for the report that I have to file with your supervisor.”
“I understand.”
“We take the mental health of our employees very seriously,” she adds, “especially when they've joined us on one of these special programs. We're all on your side. We want to ease you back into the workplace in a manner that supports, rather than compromises, your ongoing health. That was what we talked about at the hospital, remember? This is just a standard procedure that's designed to make your life easier.” She makes another note. “So nothing has happened to set you off balance?”
I open my mouth to tell her that I'm fine, but then suddenly I remember the man with the camera. I know I should tell her, but I also know that she'd start worrying. After all, it sounds crazy for me to think that a guy with a camera was watching me on the bus, and crazier still if I start adding that I think maybe I saw the same man many years ago, when I was a kid. I'm supposed to be honest in these sessions, but I don't want to jeopardize the massive amount of progress I've made over the past few months. Well, maybe massive is a strong word, but I feel like I've done okay. Better than I ever expected, certainly.
“I
'm fine,” I say finally.
“Are you sure about that?”
I nod.
Wait, is she testing me? Suddenly I realize that maybe the man with the camera was placed on that street deliberately, as some kind of test. What if Doctor Sawyer wants to check whether or not I'll be honest with her?
No.
She's not that devious.
Or is she?
Maybe that's the whole point of this little test.
“You're doing very well, Jessica,” she says, taking off her glasses and setting them down, before putting the clipboard aside and leaning back in her chair. “Everyone I've spoken to says that you're a real asset to the company. There have been far fewer bumps in the road that I expected, which actually makes me wonder whether you're simply very good at hiding any problems that might have come up.”
“I don't think I'm hiding any problems,” I reply, forcing a smile that I don't think is entirely convincing. Trying to make that smile seem more real, I force it even wider, before realizing that I'm on a hiding to nothing. Clearing my throat, I sit up straight, while abandoned the smile entirely.
I probably look completely crazy right now.
“And everything's okay at home?”
I nod.
“Are you sure about that, Jessica?”
“What...”
My voice trails off for a moment.
“What exactly do you mean?” I ask finally.
“You seem like you're on edge.”
She's noticed.
I shake my head.
“Have you been having the nightmares again?”
“Absolutely not,” I reply, which is technically true. Kind of. I mean, I didn't have the nightmare last night, and she didn't define how far back the question was supposed to go.
“Have you had any hallucinations lately?”
Again, I shake my head.
“You know you can tell me, Jessica.” She pauses, eyeing me with a hint of suspicion. “It's not a defeat if you -”
“I haven't hallucinated anything,” I reply, interrupting her. “Sometimes it's possible to see weird things, and that's all they are. Weird, random coincidences.”
I wait for her to agree with me, but instead she simply sits completely still and watches me.
“What did you see?” she asks finally.
“Nothing.”
“Jessica -”
“Are we done here?”
“Our time is up, but if something's trouble you, you need to -”
“I just feel like every little thing I do is being analyzed to death,” I explain, desperate to avoid talking about the man with the camera. “Is that so strange?”
“Not at all.”
“Nobody can live like that,” I continue. “What if you had somebody questioning everything you said? And watching your body language and looking out for anything that doesn't seem completely normal? Don't you think that maybe you'd go a little...”
My voice trails off. I'm being way too defensive here, and I know I must have set some alarm bells ringing. At the same time, so long as I get to walk out of this office and go back to my desk, I'll be fine.
“Okay,” Doctor Sawyer says finally.
“Okay?”
“Okay. I'll see you again next month, Jessica.”
Barely able to believe that it was this easy, I hesitate for a moment before getting to my feet.
“Thank you,” I mumble.
“Just remember to take things easy,” she continues, “and feel free to contact me at any point, if you need to talk about anything or ask anything or even if you just feel the need to talk about what's going on in your life. That's what I'm here for.”
“I know,” I reply, “and -”
Before I can finish, I spot a security camera high up in the far corner of the room. I've noticed the camera before, of course, but this is the first time I've found myself wondering whether it's actually recording during my sessions with Doctor Sawyer.
“Jessica?”
Clearly sensing that something's wrong, she glances over her shoulder and looks at the camera for a moment before turning back to me.
“Nothing,” I say, forcing a smile as I turn and head to the door. “I'll see you next time.”
As soon as I'm out in the corridor, I stop and lean back against the wall. I need to get my breath back and calm down a little, although a moment later I see that there's a black-domed security camera right above me. My first instinct is to go and find somewhere a little more private, but then I realize that there's no point. After all, there are cameras everywhere in this building, and the only place to hide would be in the bathroom.
I offer a faint smile at the camera, just in case a security guard somewhere is watching me, and then I head back to the office.
Chapter Six
Clicking to a new tab on the browser, I take a moment to check the two dresses I was looking at earlier. I'm not sure which one to wear to the wedding at the weekend, but I'm starting to think they might both be a little flashy.
Suddenly a red light blinks on at the top of my monitor.
Leaning forward to take a look, I realize that the light seems to be indicating that the built-in camera has been activated. I check to see which programs are running, but there's nothing that should or could be accessing the camera. Still, the light is on, so I bring up the control panel and start searching for the camera settings, only to finally reach the right pane and find that the software thinks the camera is off already. I try closing that pane and bringing it up again, but the result is the same.
“Hey Doug,” I say, turning to the guy in the next cubicle, “do you know anything about webcams?”
“Who told you?” he replies, turning to me with a startled expression.
I raise a skeptical eyebrow.
“I was working late,” he continues, “and this one time, just this one time, a pop-up window opened without my knowledge and some kind of awful, awful content started playing. I mean, it was pornography, it was sick and vile, and I can't imagine why it appeared on my computer. But like I told HR, I have no idea how it came up, and I certainly don't know how it got my details.”
He hesitates, but he looks guilty now and I think he's starting to sweat. After a moment, he leans toward me and lowers his voice.
“Are people talking about it? I thought HR said they wouldn't tell anyone. Come on, it was just one time. My wife left me six months ago and -”
“I think we're talking at cross-purposes here,” I tell him. “The light for my camera just came on, but the OS says it's off. I know I shouldn't overreact, but you hear about these weird viruses sometimes. I just don't like the idea that some weirdo in China or Russia might be watching me while I work.”
“What about some weirdo in Hounslow?”
“I'm sorry?”
“Never mind,” he continues, wheeling his chair through to join me. “Barry from security's a nice guy, really. And you can't blame him for getting bored.”
“What?”
“Huh.” He takes my mouse and clicks at the panel on the screen. “All the software says your camera's off, but you're right, the light's on.”
“That means the camera's running, doesn't it?” As I say those words, I stare at the tiny camera at the top of the monitor, and I can't help feeling creeped out. “Has someone taken control of my computer? I swear, I didn't click on any weird attachments or messages. I'm really careful about stuff like that.”
“It's probably nothing,” Doug replies, before wheeling himself back into his cubicle, “but hang on a moment. I've got something for you.”
Still staring at the camera, I can't help picturing in my mind's eye some weird guy sitting thousands of miles away, staring straight back at me. It's not like I'm doing anything weird or wrong or particularly private, but at the same time I really don't want some asshole staring at me without my permission. Of course, there are probably twenty other cameras in the office right now, attached to the ceiling and w
atching us all, but somehow that's different. Those cameras I know about. They're supposed to be there. This camera's right in front of me on my desktop, and I'm supposed to be able to pick and choose when it's watching me.
“Duct tape,” Doug says suddenly, wheeling himself back over to me and tearing off a strip of black tape from a roll that I guess he's been keeping in his desk. “Might make you look a little paranoid, but what the hell, right? Paranoia's the new normal in this screwed-up world of ours. You never know who or what might be watching!”
He leans forward and places a strip of tape across the camera.
“Do you use your camera much?” he asks.
“Not really.”
“Just remove the tape if you need to make a video call,” he continues, “and put it back at all other times. Be prepared for some weird comments, though. You might get labeled as one of those tin-foil-hat conspiracy nuts.”
“Thanks for your help,” I reply, staring at the piece of tape, still thinking about the camera lens that's now hidden. “I'm sure it was nothing.”
“You can keep this,” he says, placing the roll of tape on my desk. “Complimentary gift. I don't trust these computers. You know what? Maybe someone in HR or IT turned your camera on. They can probably do that.” He turns and nudges my arm. “Hey Jess, maybe you've got an admirer down there. You know, someone who's got a little crush on you?”
“I doubt that.”
“Why? Happens all the time. I don't know if I should tell you this, but you should probably be aware that those guys in IT can see pretty much anything you do on your computer, too. So if someone wants to get to know you better, he can check out the stuff you're into. It's kind of romantic, really.”
“How is that romantic?” I ask.
“Well, going to all that trouble.”
