My job is watching a woman trapped in a room

I don’t know where this place is, or who I’m working for. Those questions were answered with a quiet smile the first time I asked, and a scowl the second. I don’t ask them anymore. My name is Josh loves, and I’m a surveillance monitor. I was recruited for the job when I was 19. I needed a part-time job to get me through college, and they offered good pay for what was a simple job. I was given a comprehensive background check and drug test, then brought in for an interview. They were nice. I remember that much. The woman who sat across from me was friendly, and I felt at ease for the first time since I’d written my resume the night before. I was given a tour of the facility, and when I signed my name on the last paper of what felt like a hundred, I was an employee. I wasn’t allowed to know too much. I knew that my job was simple; I was to watch a stream of cameras placed in a woman’s room, and report anything that concerned me to my superiors. I couldn’t ask questions about the woman, or the reason I was watching her, or who she was. A list of things to be concerned about was provided to me, and I was free to go about my work. I have a button I can press to alert someone that something is wrong. There’s an intercom in case I have a question, which usually results in nothing but static and irritation at my superstupidity. I’ve never actually seen my bosses or coworkers. I work alone, and for the most part, I like it. I’ve been working at this job for almost eight years now. The woman in the room is a few years older than me, and I can’t help but wonder what she was doing before she got here, where she was, who she was. I’ve imagined us growing up in the same neighborhood, and even going to school together. I can’t confirm it, but part of me likes to believe it. Maybe that’s what keeps me here. The room she’s in is small. It’s a little bigger than my office, and I’ve mapped it out in my mind over the years. I know the dimensions, the location of every piece of furniture. There’s a desk in one corner, a twin-sized bed in the other, and a bookshelf full of books that I’m sure she’s read cover-to-cover many times. There’s a camera above the desk, one above the bed, and one in the corner opposite the door. It’s a CCTV camera, and it allows me full view of the room. I can zoom in on different areas, and switch between the other cameras if I feel like I need to be somewhere else. When she first arrived, she paced back and forth. She talked to people who weren’t there, she cussed at the walls. At night, she’d cry. Those nights were the hardest for me. I’d push the button and beg for someone to come help her, to comfort her, and even now, eight years later, nobody comes. Eventually, she calmed down. When I started working here, she was calmer, more at peace. She spends most days reading and writing in a journal, and she sleeps at night. Every once in a while, she’ll get up and dance. The music isn’t loud enough to hear through the camera mics, if there even is any, but I can imagine her moving slowly through the space, swaying and spinning. There are other days, though, when she paces and she talks. She yells at the walls and she cusses, and at night, she cries. One night, a few years ago, she started fighting. I didn’t see it coming, and it was terrifying. It started at 2:37 AM, according to the timestamp on the footage. I was tired and half asleep, and at first, I thought she was talking to herself. But then I realized she wasn’t alone. There was someone in the room I couldn’t see. She moved like she was punching someone, and she kicked, but I didn’t see anybody. I pushed the alert button and waited, and when no one came I turned on the intercom. “Hello?” I said, my voice shaking. “I need someone down here.” No one answered. I turned back to the cameras and what I saw made my heart stop. The woman was convulsing, twitching as she beat at the air. She was screaming, and she sounded terrified. I watched as she was thrown to the ground, and I saw her feet pummeling something that wasn’t there. “Hello?” I repeated desperately into the intercom. “Hello? I need someone *now*.” I slammed the alert button repeatedly, over and over, and finally the camera feed went dead. When I switched to the other cameras, I found those had also gone dead. I sat in the dark, waiting for someone to come. No one did. The cameras flickered back to life after what felt like an eternity, and when they did, the woman was gone. I couldn’t see her anywhere. I searched the room frantically, my eyes scanning every inch of it, desperately looking for her. I was terrified of what I might find, but I had to find her. I had to see her, I had to know she was okay. I didn’t find her. She wasn’t anywhere. It was almost 4:00 AM when she finally appeared. She walked back into the room with a bottle of water, and she took a drink. Then she laid in her bed and she went to sleep. It was like nothing had happened. I didn’t sleep that night. I waited until I was sure she was calmed down, then I pushed the alert button again. When no one came, I went home. The next day, I found a note on my desk. There was a single sentence, typed in a font I recognized from my Windows 95 computer when I was 8 years old. *She is okay. You do not need to worry about her.* I worked the rest of the day in silence. I didn’t sleep when I got home. I couldn’t stop thinking about the woman in the room. I couldn’t stop thinking about those few hours when she was nowhere to be found. The cameras went dead again four nights ago. I don’t know what happened; I didn’t see it. But when the feed flickered back to life, she was gone. I searched the room frantically, the same as I had the first time it happened. I couldn’t find her anywhere. I pushed the button and called for help on the intercom, and just as I had the first time, I sat alone in the dark, waiting. No one came. When she walked back into the room almost two hours later, she looked...different. She was dirty, and there were scratches on her arms. She didn’t seem to notice. She walked into the room, she took a drink of water, and she laid in her bed. But she didn’t go right to sleep. Instead, she looked at the camera. She looked at the camera on the wall, the one in the corner above the door, and she looked right at me. I felt my heart race as I wondered if she could see me. I knew she couldn’t, but somehow, she knew I was watching. She looked through the camera, she looked through me, and she smiled. Then she laid in her bed and she went to sleep. I couldn’t sleep when I got home. I couldn’t get the image of her looking at me out of my head. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror, I couldn’t look at anything. I couldn’t do anything but think of her. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. The next day, I switched cameras more than I ever had before. I zoomed in on her face while she slept, on her hands. I tried to imagine what she looked like when she was clean, before they’d locked her up in here. I tried to imagine what she’d been doing before they brought her here. I tried to imagine what they’d done to her. The camera’s zoomed in on her face when I left at 11:00 PM that night. I don’t know how I forgot about that. I don’t know how I forgot about her. When I got back at 9:00 the next morning, I saw her. Her face was covered in blood. She was unconscious, and she wasn’t moving. I slammed the alert button again and ran to the intercom, screaming for help. The camera flickered and went dark, and I sat alone in the dark, waiting for help that never came. The camera flickered back to life after what felt like hours, and she was gone, just like before. I searched the room again, my mind racing, my heart pounding. I searched every inch of it, but she was gone. I waited, panic-stricken, as I sat in the dark and waited for her to come back. But she didn’t. I sat there for hours, alone and scared, and when she didn’t come back, I went home. I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t drink. I couldn’t do anything but think of her, and I couldn’t think of anything but her. I went back to work the next day, scared of what I might see, but I knew I had to look. When I got to the room, she was back. But something was different. Her face was bruised, and there were cuts on her cheeks. She was limping, and she was dirty. She looked around the room frantically, then she looked at the camera. Then she smiled. This woman wasn’t the

My job is watching a woman trapped in a room

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