Running Late for Work (1000 words)

Trigger Warnings: dissociation

Her attention snapped back to reality, tinges of dissociation dulling her senses. She leaned over and placed a hand on the soft carpet, dispelling the latent dizziness.

Gosh, what time even is it? How long have I been spacing out?

She looks up and scans the room for signs of a clock. A trail of discarded clothes leads to a pile of books, sitting unshelved next to an overstuffed bookshelf. A retro flip clock sits on top of the bookshelf, displaying the time 15:42.

Oh, I’m running late.

She stops thinking for a moment, realizing a discontinuity in her thought process.

Late for what?

She shivers a bit, as though a breeze comes through the room.

To the right of the bookshelf sits a rather large chalkboard, resting at an angle against the wall from the floor. Tilting her head, she makes out some text written in a sloppy cursive script. “Remember to grab floppy disk to print at work.”

Shaking her head, she gets up from the floor and spins around to assess the rest of the room. A computer sits by the window, three floppy drives stacked to the monitor’s left; miscellaneous circuit boards sit in a box below the desk; a piano keyboard leans against the desk, with sheet music stacked on the floor, preventing the keyboard from slipping.

She marches up to the desk and prods the various eject buttons on the floppy drives, yielding one disk from the top 3.5in drive. She yoinks it out and points it at the chalkboard.

What next, past self?

Glancing further around the room, she notices a door slightly ajar leading to a bathroom.

Well, if we need to leave for work, then I’ll need to make sure I’m presentable.

As she walks over, she reviews her outfit.

Beige skirt, black tights, navy button up, teal sweater. Not the best color coordination, but presumably serviceable.

Her left hand twitches.

Swinging the door all the way open, she reaches for a light switch on the right side of the door. Then the left side of the door. She tries looking at the darkened walls for signs of some sort of light switch. Finding the dim mirror, she reaches under it and clicks a switch.

Now illuminated, she sees her reflection. A young woman, probably in her twenties, with somewhat curly hair, frizzed up a bit, and rectangular plastic glasses.

Huh. Kinda cute.

A warmth fills her cheeks, before reality clicks back into place.

Is it weird to say that about myself?

She gazes deeply into her reflection’s eyes.

But I don’t look like this. This isn’t my reflection.

Something deep inside her scoffs. Deciding to ignore the impending identity crisis, she exits the bathroom.

Spotting a purse, keys, and an ID badge hanging on a hook by the only other door in the bedroom, she grabs them.

Thank goodness there’s at least some clue as to where I’m supposed to go.

The ID badge shows a name that isn’t hers below a picture of the reflection in the mirror, and a company name in the top left. Her eyes dart to the clock.

If I’m running late and there’s only fifteen minutes to the top of the hour, then it can’t be that far of a drive.

She opens the bedroom door into a hallway. Unlit, with no sign of a bulb or light fixture, but light flows in from one of the doors. Peering through, she sees a galley kitchen leading to a dining room.

The kitchen is neatly washed and tidied. No pots or pans are on the counters, and the sink is completely spotless. The refrigerator has a few scraps of paper stuck to it with magnets, as well as a whiteboard. Scanning over it, she finds nothing of use.

How the heck am I supposed to get to work if I don’t have an address for it? Do I even know what town I’m in? Can I get a map from somewhere?

Continuing her walk through the kitchen, she finds herself in the dining room. On one side of the table, mail is stacked neatly in three piles. On the other, a few pages are scattered about.

Finding the pile with mail addressed to her not-name, she flips through the envelopes. Health insurance, bank statement, junkmail, and... paystub! She stuffs that envelope under her arm.

Glancing over to the other side of the table, she spots a document addressed to her not-name.

“Interpretation of Results from the Multidimensional Inventory of Dissoc-” a reeling nausea rips through her stomach, causing her to drop both the page and the floppy disk as she keels over.

Got it. I won’t read that.

She stops, going over what just happened.

Okay, so are you still in my head somewhere, past self?

She swears she can feel herself nodding her head.

Cool, can you help me get to work?

A bit of hesitation.

You don’t have to go into work with me, I just need help getting there.

A tiny nod.

Great, let’s go.

She speed-walks around the table, gunning for the foyer, but stops in the doorframe, feeling something pulling her back.

Am I forgetting something?

A small nod.

She looks back at the table, spotting the floppy disk she dropped.

Ah. My mistake.

Floppy disk now back in hand, she enters the foyer. Scanning the array of shoes, she spies a pair of sneakers in a teal color, almost an exact match for the sweater.

Oh, I get it now. Sorry for criticizing your outfit earlier.

A warmth bubbles up from her chest.

Slipping the shoes on, she slams the front door behind her. Two small sedans sit parked out front, one green, and one silver. Taking a guess, she sprints towards the green.

The key fits perfectly into the latch, and the door swings open without trouble. She settles into the driver's seat.

A little help?

She feels a set of hands gently guide hers to the wheel.