My job is watching a woman trapped in a room

I don’t know why I’ve been given this job or who I am working for. I was just here one day.<br><br>When I finally figured out what the “work” was, I asked if I could go home. They said no. They said I couldn’t leave, that I had to stay there and carry out my duties. And so I have.<br><br>I wasn’t allowed to talk to my family or friends back home. I wasn’t even allowed to know how long I had been here. One day I simply was, and I am still.<br><br>My job is watching a woman in a room. The room is square, white and featureless, except for a toilet in the corner. There is a large window with steel mesh covering it set into the wall by the door. There is a table and chair with leg irons on them, but they don’t currently have anyone is in them. The table has a small drawer in it.<br><br>So my job is watching this room. And more specifically, the woman in there. I hate her. I hate her more than I can possibly say.<br><br>She is fed through a small slot in the door down at the bottom where she can’t reach it. I know this is so that she does not get anything she can throw at the glass. I know that because I too hate her, and she is the reason why I don’t like the idea of glass shattering.<br><br>She looks a bit like a woman I used to know, because of her hair colour, but her face is awful and ugly. The hair is longer than it was, and the room is so white that it is difficult for me to know what colour is actually is without the contrast of anything else. It is just as long as it was when her face was still pretty, when she was still kind and beautiful.<br><br>Her face is not pretty anymore. Her face is ugly, and it is the reason I am here. It is a mass of scars with scabs that will not heal. The scars are shaped like a cross, with the horizontal edge going across her cheeks. And another vertical line going down her chin.<br><br>She is not from here. She is not the reason I am here, although sometimes I wish she was. I wish I could watch her burn, but I am allowed to see that. To feel like I have some justice.<br><br>She talks to me sometimes, through the glass. She knows my voice and it knows hers. When we talk I am suddenly back in my flat, waking up after a long sleep, to find that she is gone. Then I feel the awful pain and the guilt and the shame. Then I look away and I am back here, looking at her with this intense hatred.<br><br>She asks for things sometimes. Wants to know how long she is going to stay in there for. Wants to know what she did wrong. She cries sometimes. She’s scared and alone and confused. She cries a lot.<br><br>But she also laughs. Sometimes she sees something in the bathroom that is not there, and she is cheerful. She sings and dances and eats food she doesn’t have. She’s calling out to me, letting me know she’s okay. She’s happy.<br><br>I hate her because she is not my girlfriend.<br><br>My girlfriend is dead.<br><br>I can’t help but look at the newcomer though. Sometimes I think it’s my girl, that she has been brought back to me. I was so happy when I first saw her, I could have cried. But then she turned around, and I saw the awful face, the scar.<br><br>She is so much more beautiful than she has any right to be. And she still has hair just like my girl did.<br><br>I still hate her, but I don’t think I could watch her burn.<br><br>A few days ago she pulled out some paper and a pen from the table drawer and drew a picture on it, pressing it against the glass at one end. It was a smiley face. The paper was longer than the mesh covering the glass, so I could trace along it with my finger, along the edges of her drawing.<br><br>I laughed. She was trying to cheer me up.<br><br>Today she pulled out some more paper, and drew a picture of a cat. It was the same colour hair as hers and my girlfriends. She drew whiskers on it and a smile. She pressed it up against the glass again and I could trace it with my finger.<br><br>It reminded me of a joke my girlfriend thought was hilarious. Why did the cat join a band? Because it wanted to be a purr-cussionist.<br><br>I said it out loud. The other woman laughed.<br><br>She is not my girlfriend, but I keep thinking about her when I look at this woman. And my girlfriend is dead.<br><br>I wish I could cry. I wish I could be happy.