The Selfless Room

The new entrant to my group forgot to leave phones at the door. Our project of the moment was a locket that, when worn, could make someone so sad that they forget about all loved ones. Our task was to hover around, a halo of no person, and focus on the troublesome aura to relocate to a secure capsule. As the force moved, a call buzzed from a pocket. The curse must have dashed to the phone. The locket was unburdened, but we were not successful. The phone screen flashed, a grad photo of a boy flanked by two parents. My breath caught.

--

We are a secret group, formed thousands of years ago and coalesced from a network of shamans and healers. Our labor pulls curses or bad luck from objects. Some are haunted, brought by descendants of a star-crossed surname. Through the years, many have been art, jewels and treasures stolen from tombs or sacred places. Here, we no longer accept such tokens unless recovered by the apropos spokesperson, though some others do. But we do not choose those rules. To do so would be to declare sense of self, a state that removes our powers.

To do our job, a person cannot enter one of our rooms alone. We are always groups of three, always fully covered, vocal sounds altered. We do not know the other people under the clothes when out of the job. We cannot do so and succeed at our task. Here, we must never be one ego, one pronoun of a solo letter, one self. We must be unseen, communal, amorphous. One must not have a large personal world. Those drawn to work above all other tasks are preferred; those who do not have many people beyond work are even better.

March begets school for new plebes. The vernal season enhances new thought and purpose for all. We note that new employment pools are more slender than years past. The focus on photos of one’s face, the urge to post constant, regular updates to apps has led to a culture focused on the curated self. To lower standards means danger to those who do the job. But we need new folk, or we cannot do the job.

--

That phone. The new plebe. That face that should not have been seen. My world has been focused here, at work, for decades. Before that, a large home, a world of church and surety. A teen error, a pregnancy, changed all of that. The baby, adopted, never knew me. My age made me too young to argue. After, they all would not let me stay. The baby’s new parents returned letters from me, unopened. No young one came to look for me after the age of adulthood. But the presence of web-based photos kept me up to date. That was the one face saved, preserved from a past world. That boy was here, a part of my group. And he had no knowledge of me.

We all leave through alternate doors after work. We are not to see where others go before we are dumped along the streets to walk to car lots or subways. That way, we can stand next to our colleagues, unknown, on trams or buses. Today, though, my feet must follow the boy. My thumb rubs the watch face on my left hand over and over.

He goes to an apartment nearby. My body stays down on the street but bulbs come on along the second floor. There are yellow walls, posters of colorful art. My feet are glued. Two hours pass. The watch numbers morph and flex. A stomach gurgle and dark clouds send me home.

The next day, we are told that tech must follow the locket aura’s path. The creature was not found among the phone data. There must have been a cell or Bluetooth escape route. They tell us to take a day off as they address the escapee.

The boy does not go home for hours. My back becomes sore after hours on a bench across the street from the flat. Yellow lamps buzz above me. Thoughts race. My watch buzzes as each hour passes. Was he among the new parents and brothers? Was he loved by a woman? A man? Was he ever told of me? Would another letter be returned? Tears stream down cheeks as mental words answer for me: no. Of course not.

My body cannot get out of bed the next day. On my phone call, they say that they have not found that creature, that we cannot come back unless they track the monster down. My paycheck stays the same; these problems happen as a part of the job. They pass. But don’t come back before a phone call says so.

Does that boy go away to parents when these occurrences happen? He loves them, surely. Would he have loved me, too? Would he have come to me, had the world been altered? Would there have been more young ones? Thoughts consume me. Nobody comes to the flat for a few days. My purpose changes, my body cannot go out now. Takeout mounds accumulate on the floor at my place. A week passes, ten days. No call.

My own parents moved ten years ago. They shared no news nor forwarded address. Someone else from my hometown told the news. Should the boy ask for news of grandparents, there would be no words to say. The thought paralyzes my stomach- food cannot help. The phone buzzes. My thumb pushes mute and my body turns away. My watch numbers no longer make sense.

Sleep happens often now. Moments awake shorten by day, by hour. Sounds muffle, legs are too exhausted to walk for a glass of water. The cocoon wraps more taut, layer on layer. A repeated thud booms from beyond- my heart, surely. Then a crash sounds.

Faces loom above me, wrapped as we must do at work. They form around me, blank auras, as they pull a dark sense from my core. The aura oozes through me, holds fast to fears and wants. Tentacles detach one by one. My eyes start to work. Focus returns.

The bedroom has scattered trash throughout, bugs buzz everywhere. Bedclothes are covered, mucky. Odors are rank and sharp. Other people from work are there to stuff bags and mop floors. A needle pokes my arm, saltwater drops down from an elevated bag.

Above me, seven staff chant. The plebe’s hood appears here. They stare at my watch, pull the accessory from my arm. The ooze pulls away from me completely, follows the object. My hand pulls on the new staff member’s hood. A face appears above- not my boy’s face. He was never here at all. A hoodless young woman stares, asks after me. Thoughtful eyes show concern, a type of gaze long forgotten.

After, the room looks clean, empty, hollow. There cannot be a job anymore, though hazard pay should come. My last bonds to others are broken. Someday soon, a new world must come.