Page 15 of Break Room
The clock was creeping past midnight, and the world outside was pitch black, with all the streetlamps now off. My reflection in the window stared back. My face was blank, with no emotion. Was it because I was unfazed by all this? Or had the blow from overhearing Tumbler and Cake’s conversation in the break room already numbed me, helping me to regain my composure faster? I couldn’t shake that haunting phrase:He probably doesn’t even realise he’s weird – and never will.But I forced myself to gather every rational thought I could, desperate to drown out the unnecessary noise of self-doubt.
Cake had twisted the story to make it seem like I was infatuated with her, offering hints unprompted, when all I’d done was casually suggest we exchange one. Why would she go out of her way to lie about something so easily disproven once the show aired? If her goal was to make Tumbler jealous, she could’ve mentioned an admirer from the outside world, not a member of the cast. Behaviour like that wouldn’t help her win –nor would it help her reputation after this was all over and the show aired.
In the end, wasn’t the truly unsettling person the one who tells unnecessary lies for no apparent reason?
CHAPTER
Nine
I couldn’t fall asleep that night, of course, and stayed awake until dawn. For reasons I couldn’t fully explain, I found myself wanting to talk to Monologue. It wasn’t because I suspected him of being the mole, but rather because I felt a faint connection to him – a notion almost pathetically laughable, even to myself. Yet, at that moment, I desperately needed to talk to someone, and he seemed like the right choice.
I was certain that Monologue had figured out long before the rest of us that the break room could be accessed outside working hours, which explained why I rarely saw him there during the day. It was pure speculation on my part that he might drop by early in the morning, but nonetheless, I decided to make my way to the break room at 6am and wait for him.
The break room before dawn felt like an entirely different place, a world apart from its usual self in the light of the day. Over the past few days, everything had always been neatly tidied by the time I arrived in the morning, but now, traces of the previous night still lingered. Tumbler and Cake’s cups sat unwashed on the counter, the sink was streaked with dark stains from a soggy rooibos teabag, and while the cabinet I’d hidden in looked fine at first glance, the moment I touched the door, the loose hinge wobbled precariously. Inside, the cleaning supplies I’d knocked over in my frantic scramble to hide were still scattered untidily.
I’d just crouched down to straighten the fallen mould-prevention spray and set the bleach bottles upright when I sensed someone enter the break room behind me. It was now 6.50am.
There stood Monologue, looking refreshed.
‘Hey, Monologue, uh . . .’ I stammered, my mind racing to find the right words. ‘I wanted to talk to you about something. I figured if I came early, I might catch you.’
The words tumbled out before I could organise my thoughts.I forced my sleep-deprived eyes, heavy from the restless night, to look as casual as I sounded – or at least as casual as I was trying to sound.
‘Did you open a hint about yourself?’
Monologue’s response caught me completely off-guard. I stared at him, blankly processing his unexpected words.
‘I’m sorry you did so,’ he said. ‘But right now, we just gotta do what has to be done.’
He stood on his tiptoes and reached towards the upper cabinets, unlocking a tiny padlock with a key. My eyes widened as I noticed the lock – something I’d never realised was there before. Looking closer, I saw it was identical to those used to secure our hint boxes.
‘Why are you using that lock here?’ I asked, pointing at it.
‘There aren’t enough drawers in my room,’ Monologue replied simply, pulling out a pair of rubber gloves and a scrubbing brush from the cabinet. Without hesitation, he grabbed more cleaning supplies from the lower cabinet, and began to tidy the break room in earnest.
He tied a green apron around his waist, slipped on the bright pink rubber gloves, and got to work. The rooibos teabag was wrung out and tossed away. The cups were washed and dried. The trash was emptied, and the recyclables were carefully sorted.
It wasn’t until I watched him in action that it dawned on me – every bit of post-filming clean-up I had assumed was handled by the crew had, in fact, been Monologue’s work all along.
‘Let me help,’ I offered, and without a word, Monologue nodded towards a shelf where an extra pair of gloves was neatly placed.
As he wiped down the counter, he suddenly broke the silence. ‘It’s awful, isn’t it? Finding out what people think of you. Normally, we never get to hear these things.’
‘I really didn’t know,’ I replied carefully, each word weighed before leaving my mouth. ‘Were you . . . were you aware of these things before you came here? I mean . . . did you know what others think of you?’ I added, treading cautiously, unsure if my question might strike a nerve.
‘Well, I only recently realised that some people just . . . know. They instinctively understand how they are perceived and what makes others like or dislike them.’ His words were as cryptic as ever. He wrung out a wet cloth, gave it a shake, and stretched his back, his face glowing with a genuine sense of satisfaction from having accomplished his routine cleaning.
‘Is that why you do all this?’ I asked, summoning my courage. ‘To try and get along with people?’
He stopped and looked at me, a faint flicker of surprise in his eyes. ‘With just this?’ he asked. He shook his head. ‘Once you’ve lost too many points, no amount of extra points will ever help you catch up.’
After that, the details of our conversation blurred in my memory, mostly because my mind had begun spinning out of control. All I could recall was a single, unrelenting thought echoing in my head:This person must have been made up for the show. He must be a created character.
I let Monologue continue speaking, his words washing over me as I constructed an image of him: someone slightly detached from reality, a man who interacted with others in an overly precise, almost unnatural way.
Eventually, I decided to push the entire conversation out of my mind, settling on one conclusion: Monologuehadto be the mole.
Only then did I feel the beginnings of a fragile peace. The desire I’d once had for Monologue to be stranger than me shifted, and I began to wish he was entirely ordinary. I wanted everyone here to be utterly blind to the truth; I wanted thepeople who’d labelled us both as strange to be the truly odd ones. Then, maybe, I could be the normal one. I felt like a piece on anOthelloboard, flipping endlessly between black and white as my perceptions of the people around me shifted with every interaction.
