I hear a door creaking slowly, like a long yawn, followed by footsteps—heeled boots, I think. Their clacking is muted against the carpet, but then again, all sounds are faint and faraway, existing on a different plane, like rain pitter-pattering on the other side of a plexiglass window.
Then there’s a scream.
“Oh my God,” I hear a voice say, distant and disgruntled. Then there’s that slow and steady yawn again, followed by silence. The earth stops rotating.
The door’s pulled open. This sounds less like a yawn and more like a quick grunt, the kind you hear exclusively in porn. The muffled steps are accompanied by a new shoe. Loafers. Maybe ballet flats.
“How long has she been like this?” a quiet voice asks. There’s a whimpering followed by a tiny cracking sound, like a fork grinding against a plate.
“I-I don’t know. I just found her here, lifeless like this. She took the keys right out of my desk drawer when I was in the bathroom. Fifteen minutes ago, maybe twenty. I’m not sure. I had to ask the custodial staff for the spare. Is she...is she breathing?”
I feel something cold graze my wrist, a dog tickling my skin with its tongue.
“She’s got a pulse. But look at these scars all over her inner arms. What are those from?” A warm fog passes over me. It smells of peppermint.
“Noora, can you hear me?”
The whimpering grows louder, like storm clouds rolling in over the ocean. Then lightning strikes—the moaning door turns into a full-stop screech, and all different kinds of footsteps outline the night sky. A pair of worn-soled sneakers. Chelsea boots, if I’m not mistaken. A silent poke of a stiletto.
My eyelids flutter open to find a mascara-stained Saffron, a forehead-wrinkled Beth, Dickhead Daniel, Lola, and Kelsea all hovering over me, staring down with feigned concern. I scan Saffron’s eyes for meaning; the second we make contact, they break into big, heavy sobs.
“Where am I?” I ask, the alarm bells ringing in my brain. “What’s going on?”
The door opens again, and about five more people flood in, two of whom I don’t think I’ve ever seen before in my life. They all cram into the tight space. I try to lift my neck to sneak a peek, but maneuvering my head feels like trying to operate heavy machinery. I quickly give up the fight.
“You’re in the beauty closet,” Beth says, her calm vocal tone wavering slightly. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
The beauty closet.
I’m in the beauty closet. Right. But what time is it? Did I make it to my meeting with Loretta? Has an entire week passed? I feel a hopeless, nonsensical lapse of time.
“Um, well.” I rack my brain for answers. “It was Monday. I…Loretta had an off-site. I went to check on Saffron. Loretta came back and called me into her office.”
Everything I said to Loretta comes free-falling back into my brain. Every single word, each hateful syllable. I gulp and shut my eyes. Maybe it was all a dream.
“She had to run to a meeting, but we scheduled a touch-base for later. Then, I came to the beauty closet to touch up my makeup, and now I’m here talking to you.”
I look around the room, at all the people whispering and staring at me with pity.
“What’s going on?”
I can feel a sharp pain in my chest, as my breath quickens. My eyes feel itchy. Beth takes a deep breath and leans forward so she can rub my back.
“Don’t panic, Noora,” she says firmly. I try my best to listen, but everything around me is moving so slowly. “You fainted. I’m not sure how long you’ve been out. Saffron found you in here about five minutes ago.”
I start to cry like a toddler whose ice cream cone has been unexpectedly slapped out of her hand by a bully. All my coworkers—my peers, my mentors, my enemies (hi, Kelsea!)—crowding around me is too much for me to take. The tiny walls of the closet begin to close in until I can no longer breathe and begin to hallucinate building security walking in.
“Someone walk me through the incident,” the ghost of Superman says. He places a sturdy hand on my shoulder, as if trying to comfort me. Somehow, I feel the gravity of his touch.
This may all be real.
“She fainted in here, that’s all we know,” Beth says. Saffron sobs like their life depends on it.
“Did she hit her head?” he asks, looking down at me. I shake my head.
“Well, we don’t know that,” Beth jumps in. “Her last memory was entering the closet.”
Superman exhales, shaking his head. He gives my arm a fatherly pat.
“Then we’re going to have to call the EMT in here. She might have a concussion.”
“What? No!”
The reality of the situation finally dawns on me: The entire SPP office is about to be crowding the beauty closet. Everyone will know I fainted. Loretta will know.
“P-p-p-please,” I stutter, taking big gasps between my blubbering bawling. “Please don’t tell Looooreeeeeettaaaaa!” I try hard to control my breathing, but my entire body is shaking.
“Loretta?” Superman looks confused. He reaches inside his front pocket and hands me a handkerchief to blow my snot into. I muster up a third of a smile to give him. “Listen, if the EMT is coming, we’ll have to contact the police. This happened on company property. You could try to sue.”
“I’m not going to sue!” I cry out. Kelsea laughs. Saffron looks up at her and practically spits in her direction.
“You’re over the age of eighteen, right?” Superman asks.
I shake my head for a second then remember that I am, in fact, twenty-two. I nod.
“Do you want to contact your parents?”
“They live in Dubai.” I sniffle.
“Do you have any other family in the city?”
I think of Leila. I imagine being wrapped up in one of her hugs at this very moment, smelling her signature musk, feeling her fingers run through my hair. It’s what I want most. I’d do anything to be with her right now, to take back our pointless fight. To tell her she was right. She was right about everything.
“No, I don’t,” I tell Superman. He frowns and scribbles something on his clipboard.
Suddenly, a cop bursts into the tiny space, a couple of EMT nurses in tow behind them. Every SPP employee in the closet jumps in unison.
“Okay, everybody out,” the cop yells. Daniel, Kelsea, Lola, and all the other randoms immediately evacuate. Saffron doesn’t leave my side. “Who’s in charge here?”
Beth takes a step forward.
“I am.”
“Are you this girl’s supervisor?” Mr. Cop asks, taking in the organized rows of makeup around him.
“No, but I am responsible for her,” Beth says. “I’m the managing editor of Vinyl.”
“The fashion magazine?”
“The culture magazine,” I say from my comatose position. Upon hearing me speak, the EMTs flock to my side. The cop looks down at me and gives me a little wave. I wave back.
“Her vitals look good,” one nurse says to the other. “Her heart rate is a little fast, though.” They strap a pressurized plastic band around one of my arms. It cuts into my flesh.
“Are you dehydrated?” the first one asks.
“No, ma’am,” I respond. I had, like, three bottles of water today. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to assume your gender.”
“That’s all right,” they say with a laugh. “Did you eat?”
“Yes. I had a little bit of granola from the free table.”
“That’s not enough,” the EMT jumps in.
They turn to the other and not-so-subtly mouth, This could be an anorexia thing.
“It’s not,” I cut them off. “I know what happened.”
The room goes silent. Saffron stops crying and pays attention, and Superman ceases scribbling on his board. Beth takes a step closer.
Why do I always have to open my fucking mouth?
“Well, what is it then?” Mr. Cop asks.
I go to scratch my inner arms, but one of the EMTs slaps it away.
“Stop it! You have cuts all over your arms! You’ll bleed yourself dry,” the EMT commands. I stop itching. The other EMT, the one playing good nurse, leans down to examine my arms.
“Is it a stress rash?” she softly asks. “Do you struggle with anxiety?”
I look around the room at Saffron and Beth then back up at the nurse. I nod. She sighs.
“I know what happened,” the medic announces to the room. “She had a panic attack. Have you had panic attacks before, young lady?”
Saffron and I exchange a look. I hate being called a “little girl” or “young lady.” It brings me back to years of being talked down to, treated with condescension. But I’m too freaked out to say anything.
“Yes,” I admit, refusing to make eye contact with Saffron or Beth. “But never to the point that I’ve passed out.”
“Did something triggering happen?”
I refuse to answer. There’s no way I’m coming out as C. Bates while lying horizontal on the floor of a closet. Please, allow me to maintain some semblance of pride.
Besides, they’ll all find out soon enough.
“Fine,” she says, giving up. “Do you want to go to the hospital and have your brain monitored? In case you do have a concussion?”
I shake my head. Despite the massive amount of humiliation swelling in my brain, I feel relatively fine. A little sore, but the carpet really cushioned the fall.
“All right, then, I’m going to have someone escort you home.”
“I’ll do it!” Saffron volunteers. They sit down next to me, and I collapse into their arms, crying into their shoulder. They rub my back in a circular motion, just like Leila always does. It feels like listening to a remix of your favorite song—not the real thing, but it’ll do.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” I whisper to Saffron. “I have something to tell you.”
“It can wait.” They cut me off. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“What in God’s name is going on in here?”
I hear a bellowing voice from outside the closet. My hands clam up. With the force of a natural disaster, Loretta James throws open the door to the beauty closet and marches right in. When she sees me, her face goes pale.
“Jesus, sweet pea, you look awful,” she says to me. “What’s going on in here? Why are you on the ground?”
She stops to take in the medics, police, and building security, as if suddenly noticing their presence.
“Hello, Officer,” she says coolly.
“This young lady experienced a traumatic event,” Mr. Cop explains. “I’m sending her home.”
I cringe. There it is again.
At the sound of the word home, Loretta’s ears perk up. She turns to the cop, red in the face.
“Traumatic event? What traumatic event? You can’t just take my assistant away. I need her here! We have important business to discuss!”
Superman steps between the cop and Loretta, a solid five inches taller than both. He towers over them, quietly seething. Then, he turns around and offers me his hand. I take it, and he pulls me up onto my feet. I feel my knees slightly buckle. Superman seemingly notices and offers his arm. I grab on.
“She’s coming with me,” he says to Loretta, before walking me out the beauty closet door. Saffron trails behind us, still sniffling.
“Thank you,” I whisper to Superman.
He grunts back. “Just come with me.”
We parade through the office—a sea of security, policemen, emergency responders, and Vinyl staffers. The rest of the floor gawks at me, whispering. Their eyes are lined with thick, clumpy pity.
“I hear she tried to kill herself,” I hear someone mumble. I look down and try to imagine myself asleep, lucidly dreaming.
When we arrive at the elevators, Superman hands me to Saffron.
“Promise me you’ll rest tonight, little lady,” the nice EMT says. I nod, and we get on to the elevator. As the doors are closing, I see Cal walk into the hall. He takes in the scene then locks eyes with me, a horrified expression on his face. The elevator shuts just as he’s about to say something.
And then we all go down.