A Break in Reality

The buzzing alerted me first.

I was still asleep; I had no idea what was happening. My partner was somehow sound asleep beside me; my cat was alert. She stood by the window, she clawed at the blinds. Through the gaps, I saw nothing unusual.

In our apartment, there was no windows save for the ones in the two bedrooms. And so it was with a mixture of nervous energy and disdain that I climbed to my feet and headed to the door. Outside, the buzzing grew more insistent, cold air reached through the open door and wrapped clawed fingers around my legs.

It was a drone that awaited me. In its basket, a package.

For a moment, we stared at each other (that is, if drones can stare). Its camera flickered and twisted. Then, it sat the package down at my feet and left.

I waited until it had left my sight, until its buzzing was reduced to a nothingness that blended with the sounds of morning. Then, I crouched down and examined the box.

It was small with a shipping label as big as a standard sheet of paper. My name and address were there. In the top corner, where a name and return address should’ve been, were two short sentences.

You should know.

You live here, after all.

I read it once, then twice. I read it thrice, just to be sure.

How was I supposed to know who sent this to me when there existed over seven billion people on Earth that I had absolutely no control over?

With the caution of a bomb expert, I took the package inside and I cut it open. But what was inside the box puzzled me even more than the strange message.

It was a little ceramic pastel egg sculpture with rabbits painting it. One stood on a ladder, the other painted the base. There was a little chick sitting at the bottom of the ladder, and one sitting on the tip of the egg. On the bottom was a turnkey.

Beside the turnkey were words I’d read a thousand times.

Monique’s First Easter.

Love,

G. Grandma Hardt.

I touched the lettering.

This egg, I played with it when I was a toddler. I dropped it no less than five times and broke it in a different spot every time. The two chicks, they’d snapped off; the ladder, too, and the rabbit that stood atop the ladder. The paintbrush held by the rabbit at the bottom had also broken.

But the one in my hand, it was whole and unbroken.

I quickly ran to the tiny display case in my room where the original still sat.

It wasn’t there.

I gripped the unbroken music player, my jaw trembled. I quickly went to wake up my partner. I shook him once, I called his name.

And then, in the mirror on the closet door I caught sight of my reflection.

Something wasn’t right.

I walked closer; my dread increased. It was definitely me, but… my reflection was slightly different than what I remembered it being.

My face was too round, my features all too small. My normally rosy colored cheeks and lips were a pale white, and my hair was jagged and fell like it hadn’t been brushed in months. My head was too small, my neck too thick, my shoulders too wide.

This wasn’t how I looked.

“Monique?” A voice asked.

I found him sitting up slightly, staring at me.

“Tell me Zach… Do I look different to you?”

He blinked at me.

“Do I look different?” I snapped.

Zach dramatically shook his head. “No. You look the same as always.”

I looked back in the mirror, and I touched my face.

My hand trembled.

*******

I spent the rest of that morning searching on google images for the sculpture. I tried every which way of searching for it, but nothing came up. It was an old music player, that much I knew, but surely on any number of vintage sites, someone was selling it?

But I found nothing.

Zach didn’t know anything about it; I had so many sentimental things in that display case, he’d never taken notice of it before.

“Are you sure?” I asked him again and again. “You aren’t pulling a prank on me here? You didn’t order this for me because you knew I felt sad about it being broken?”

“No, I promise I didn’t.”

I held the little sculpture in my hand. On the wooden bottom, there was no manufacturer to search for, just an “s” on the turnkey and the silvery words written by my great grandmother.

Hours passed. My alarm startled me; it was time to get ready for work.

I’d found absolutely nothing.

Surely someone bought this and sent it to me, but from where? And where did the original go?

Before I left, I ran my nails gently over the entire sculpture, trying to find any spot that may have been broken and cleverly repaired later.

Still, nothing.

*******

“Monique, pay attention!” Ignacio shouted at me.

I frowned through the window at him. “I am paying attention. Nothing’s come back incorrect, now I need you to make that pasta for this ticket.”

He slammed his tongs into the oven. Ignacio threw the pasta dish at me, nearly knocking it out of the food window. I glared through the window at him, but cheerily called back: “Thank you!”

Ignacio and I argued frequently, but tonight was far, far worse.

“Can you heat this sandwich up a bit more?”

“No. It’s a cold sandwich, it’s meant to be cold.”

I stared at him for a moment. “Yes, but the customer asked that it be made hot. Please heat it up a bit more.”

“Go get a manager.”

And so, I did.

“Hey, I need this pasta reheated please.”

“I’m not reheating the damned pasta!”

“Then I need a new one.”

“That’s not happening either.”

So I spoke to a manager again.

It was a war that lasted the night.

At last, the restaurant closed, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Hey Ignacio, can I talk to you?”

He glared at me.

This was abnormal; though we often fought, we always reconciled by the end of the shift, talked out our differences. Whether we liked each other or not was irrelevant; we had to work together and we both understood this… or so I thought.

He’d never acted this way before.

“What happened today?” I asked.

“What happened?” He snapped. “You’re awful at your job, you have no communication skills whatsoever. You’re easily the worst expo that’s ever worked here.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Ignacio, none of that is helpful, what can I do to improve?”

“What can you do?” He angrily put his fists on the table. “You can quit.”

He stormed off, slamming into the wall on his way out.

I looked at my coworkers; some glared at me, as if they agreed with him. Others looked away and shook their heads.

What’s happening today?

I finished up my cleaning, clocked out and called: “Goodbye everyone!”

Usually this was met with a chorus of voices, but today, only silence echoed me.

I looked behind and I again called out: “Goodbye!”

Still, nothing.

Dismayed, I left.

*******

“Welcome home, love.” Zach said.

I smiled at him. “Thanks.”

Sitting on the table where I’d left it was the ceramic egg-shaped music box. I picked it up and checked the clock.

Mom was probably still awake for another hour or so. I gave her a call.

She didn’t pick up.

I tried a second time; my phone hung up on the second ring.

I stared at it for a moment, until a text message came through: what?

Hey Mom, do you have a moment to talk?

No.

And again, I found myself staring. Asking my mom to talk was always a formality because the answer was always “yes.” She was my biggest supporter and confidant.

I waited for a follow-up message, an explanation, anything, but nothing came through.

As I washed my face and prepared for bed, I was again reminded of my unusual reflection. I felt depressed, staring at this face that was ever so slightly different.

****

You should know.

You live here, after all.

I stared at the box, I read it again and again. There was no hints written on the box, no messages inside. I tore the entire thing apart.

Nothing.

None of my relatives knew anything about it. Most of them didn’t even know I had this ceramic egg, and the ones who found out about it asked if they could have it. They “didn’t get anything to remember Grandma Hardt by,” after all. I was only eight when she passed, I had so little memories of her that it didn’t make sense for me to have anything of hers.

At least, that’s what they told me.

I made sure to keep the fact that I also owned her favorite collectible teddy bear to myself.

You should know.

You live here, after all.

Seven billion people in this world, all of which I had no control over. How was I supposed to know who sent this to me just because I lived here?

The only way that I would know who sent this to me was if I had control over all those people.

But I didn’t.

There was only one person I had control of, and that person I barely could control.

It was myself.

I started putting the pieces together. I’d often times found that my perception of the world was always far worse than what it actually was: Ignacio’s rage and hatred, my mother’s absenteeism, the ignorance my coworkers gave me, the face I saw in the mirror.

All of these were solely in my head before, and the more I spoke to people, the truer that became.

And in that moment, I knew who sent me the box.

*******

To find her was a very difficult task. As far as I knew, the only place she would call “safe” was home, the very place I started from.

She wouldn’t be… there, would she?

It was just up the road, a short drive. I took it in silence, holding the music player in my lap.

From the road you could see the backside of it: a tall, rectangular two-story house painted a gray-blue. A steep, steep slope ran from the road to the massive backyard, and a concrete porch as boxy as the house stretched beyond the door.

Despite its friendly appearance, I shuddered as I passed by. My hands trembled on the wheel.

A right turn, then another and another brought me to the cul-de-sac, where afar the front door waited. I parked and stepped out.

From the front, it looked like a one-story house. Beautiful, paved gardens and tree rings decorated the yard, neon green grass greeted me.

All I felt was dread.

What are you wearing?! You look like a gardener!

I stepped up to the driveway.

No, stop! Please, stop!

And to the front door I walked.

Monique…? Is that… really you?

I knocked on the door, but there was no answer.

I tried the handle.

It was unlocked.

The entryway greeted me as it always had. The maw of the stairs opened like a great beast, the carpeted living room stretched warmly to the back of the house.

Get out of bed, now!

The place looked exactly as I remembered it, right down to the hanging plants above the coat rack to the left of the door.

You’re retarded and immature.

You’re the black raincloud hanging over my perfect family.

Monique, don’t you dare corrupt my daughter!

I don’t want you sitting next to me, get away.

Every step I took was painful, every inch of this house a bad memory.

I turned to the left down the narrow hall. Lining the walls were seven photos of seven kids; there was a gap missing where mine should’ve been.

Around the corner were three doors: two bedrooms and a bathroom.

One door was open, the one to my left.

I slowly pushed the door further open, and found, sitting in the middle of the floor, a little girl with long black hair. She faced the wall where a framed picture of horses running from the ocean hung; in her hand was a knife. It danced over her wrist dangerously without breaking skin.

She was everything my reflection should be.

“You finally found me.” She whispered.