by Cecilia Kennedy
The blinking light beckons from the recording booth at work. Employees are encouraged to go there, one at a time, on Thursdays from 4 p.m.-5 p.m. to livestream “think” pieces for the company’s LinkNet social channel. Not many of us volunteer, but I do, hoping to get paid. Everyone else is, but for some reason, my checks get delayed, so I do what I can to be noticed, to be valuable.
The topic for the livestream goes unannounced. It’s a surprise waiting for me each time I enter the booth. Today, I’m supposed to eat live bugs I don’t recognize. They’re in a box under the desk, and they don’t go down smoothly. They fight all the way. Some are sour; some are bitter, but I smile for the camera and never, ever look like I’ll retch. The audience asks questions about what it’s like to work here, what I do, and between swallows, I answer them. Not many people are watching, so I’m not sure why Corporate does this or what they get out of it, but I figure, someone has to support their efforts, so I do.
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The recording light goes on, and I’m alone in the studio, again on a Thursday. I tell everyone my name and what I do, and then I announce the topic: my deepest, darkest secret. Looking into the camera, I tell everyone who’s listening—and everyone who will view the recording later on—how I once stole my parents’ car when I was twelve and hit and probably killed (I don’t know for sure) a pedestrian. I fled the scene, still haunted to this day by the look on that man’s face. When I leave the studio, I feel naked, but I’m absolutely convinced that someday, I’ll get paid. I have to.
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In the recording booth, today, I find boxes of snakes. They’re just rat snakes, but I’m supposed to let them crawl all over my body—and they bite. It actually hurts. Some smell like rotting flesh. I do my best to answer questions, still hoping I’ll get paid.
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The recording booth gleams and shimmers with shards of glass. Today, I’m to insert them into my fingers and toes. I choose the big toe on my right foot first and wedge a tiny sliver into the space between the nail. Blood blooms, and I rub it in, massaging the glass in tighter. The skin around it swells, but I keep massaging until the pain is both dull and sharp. The insertion site stings and throbs until puss bubbles to the top and bursts. I know Corporate’s watching. I know they’re licking their lips. They want to see my insides squirm and wriggle, and I can’t believe I still owe them this much.
Cecilia Kennedy (she/her) taught Spanish and English composition and literature in Ohio for 20 years before moving to Washington state in 2016. She has two short-story collections: Twenty-Four-Hour Shift: Dark Tales from on and off the Clock (DarkWinter Press) and The Places We Haunt (Baxter House Editions).
