Oh, Honey

You thought it was a joke.

Until you saw it with your own eyes; A decapitated head.

It was a great job. Well, a pretty good one. Sort of. Most would consider it to be stable, smart even. Really, in this market one would loathe to get rid of such a steady position. Yeah, you could say you liked this job. Being literal, it was what got you out of bed in the mornings. It was a great job.

Wait a minute.

You hated working for minimum wage. Yes, it got you out of bed, but it made you dread your life. Watching day after day go by without so much of a flicker of change. You only kept this job because you had no other option.

The place, as in the physical space where you worked, was nice. The Museum was serene, typically empty and always clean. As you dusted the marbled flesh of historic figures, you felt at peace knowing no one could interrupt your thoughts. Taking out each tiny trinket was an exercise in patience and precision as any small movement might crumble years of history and value. 

“Guess what!”

Your coworker, the one who constantly had a pep in her step due to coffee, a mixture of drugs, and a complete lack of situational awareness, sauntered over and popped herself onto the counter. You had just cleaned that. The ticket office desk had a bunch of poor puns, a few dinosaur bobble-heads, and now a human-sized one. At least, you were sure she had a spring for a brain.

It had been a long day and still, you had four more hours in your shift.

Recent events including, well, entirely limited to the rise of a horrifying social media trend had all but changed your job title from custodian to mortician without the pay raise. You needed a degree of dissociation to deal with the direction your job had headed. Thus, time was turning and twisting in such a way that it lost most of its meaning. Break time wasn’t at two o’clock, it was when you started to feel your body shake due to lack of food. Only your physical body clocked out while your mind replayed the day on a constant loop until you found yourself back at work the next day.

“What?” You mustered the energy to respond.  

”I got a promotion.” She whispered this part, her eyes darting across the room to see if any other coworkers were listening. You knew she hoped they were all waiting with baited breath.

You polished the counter over and over and over again to mask your feelings. You had done such a good job, you were sure you could see a bit of your reflection. A visage of your face looked back at you and altogether you could see the anger, dread, and disgust wash over it. Your coworker didn’t need this job, her parents were putting her through school and paying for her apartment. In reality, you didn’t care much for your coworker.

You grabbed the mop from the supply closet to your left while thinking of the proper words to say when the last thing you felt was congratulatory. It was customary and good social practice, but you didn’t feel like it.

You heard a scream earlier and knew there would be blood to clean up.

“Wow, that’s great.” You replied with all the grace you could muster.

Monotone and morose, you kept your voice steady despite the task ahead. A silly thing really, you should be used to this feeling by now.

Soap tipped over the bucket with a splish and then a splash. You slugged through the Museum paying no attention to the safety hazard you left behind. A sign should be put up.

Eh, you didn’t really care. 

An arrow pointing to the French History wing of the Museum guided your way to the mess you had to clean up. Commotion caused solely by a curious fixation on eternal life and of course, a need for attention. God, you needed to quit your job.

“Ah! Sorry, thanks!” Your coworker slipped. Damn, someone really needed to put a caution sign up. Not you though, of course.

Likely, she was expecting a larger reaction to her news and was following you around to get one. Your threshold had been hit. Three clean-ups in one day left you completely drained.

“It’s pretty great. You’re happy for me, right?” You gave her a slight nod, eyes forward. “Right! I was thinking of throwing a little party to celebrate.” She struggled to keep up with your pace. “A little bit of this, a little bit of that and a lot of champagne.” She gesticulated wildly droning on about the kind of atmosphere and aesthetic she wanted to curate. Unfortunately, it fell on deaf ears.

“Great idea.” It really was a fine idea if a bit basic.

A sudden, but not at all unexpected, screech came from behind.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Ew, ew, ew, ew. Clean that up right now and get it out of my face. That’s an order from your manager, by the way.” She said cringing with her entire body. “Ugh, my vibe has so been ruined.”

Dark red blood pooled at your feet. It snaked its way around the room looking for any pathway it could find to extend itself to cover the space. Splattered across the display cases and making it the extra mile to the ceiling, the blade of the guillotine was filthy.

“We wouldn’t want that, would we?” You said dryly.

A decapitated head rolled in your direction.

“You get me. Good thing you’re wearing those knockoff shoes, who cares if they get dirty?” She pointed to your shoes. A little scuffed, but certainly not knockoffs. “They probably only cost like twenty bucks. Right?”

It had taken you months to save up for those shoes. You were very proud of your discipline and liked the shoes a lot. Now, they were flecked with blood. Pity.

“Whatever you say, Emma.”

“Ugh, you are so funny. I’m dead.”

The person in front of you was actually dead. Her words held little meaning in the present situation. Lifeless eyes met your gaze as a body slumped over in the background. A small circular room with a guillotine in the centre and cabinets filled with memorabilia of that era was the birthplace of a vicious trend sweeping the socials.

 “Well, good luck with, um, this.” She said with a distinct scrunch of her nose and a look of disgust in her face. “I have to go back to the office to work on the schedule. You want to switch to Tuesdays, right?”

You did not want to be here at all, but Tuesdays were ok. You nod.

At once, complete silence and an uncertainty of what to do first. A spotlight in the centre of the room illuminated the guillotine that killed Marie Antoinette. In front of you was a body clearly dressed in her likeness. A fan. Through the blood you could see excessive use of white face powder, a deep red lipstick and colourful eyelids. This one even had a wig, an intricately laced pattern of hearts.

You carefully kicked the head into its designated box already outfitted with a shipping label. Evidently, he was very organized. In times like these, one had to be quick or they might fall behind the trend cycle. As the water in the bucket slowly diluted itself, you remembered to look for the camera.

A quick scan of the room showed that a phone had been stuck parallel to the guillotine so the audience would get a good view of the exact moment the head was separated from the body. The live comments began to rain down greetings for the poor custodian, an unfortunate side effect of your job. Your thumb found the off button.

“Pathetic.” You found yourself saying to the empty room.

Many participating in this trend did not see it as dying so much as it was actually preserving themselves for all of eternity. Not a sorrowful goodbye but one last chance for a viral moment. Little did they know, people forgot their faces as soon as the next bloody horror story presented itself.

You were above it all.

Better than the rest, unable to be influenced.

The body was the burden. It was all about the head, the thoughts, the brilliant minds, no one cared too much for the rest. To encase oneself in ice for all to see and dissect for years to come. Pity that most are forgotten the moment the video ends. A consequence of joining a trend too late.

A new drain had to be installed in the supply closet adjacent to the exhibit. You emptied out the bucket, once clear, now a deep shade of red.  A slight tinge of red coated the marbling floor giving the whole room an uninviting and ominous aura. Armed with some suds and fresh water, you continued to clean, humming to yourself so other thoughts would not creep up, while museum goers commentated.

“Poor thing.” Wow, it was nice to hear a bit of sympathy.

“You really feel bad for it?” Huh? You’ve been downgraded to an object.

“It? They were a living, breathing human being. They made a sacrifice for art and for humanity. Have some respect.” Oh.

Maybe it really was all about attention. No one had spoken about you in a reverent way, especially not complete strangers. For selfish reasons, that enticed you. To be talked about. To be mourned.

To be known.

History had always fascinated you. One look into our collective past could give one immense knowledge about the future. It was as close to time travel as we could get. Or any number of theories about simulations, multiple timelines or parallel universes if one wanted to lose their head a bit. Even the smallest indications could let you know what path you were on.

You desperately needed a hint.

At times, you wondered if we shaped our history or if our history shaped us. The blade did look very shiny. It was nearly impossible to be completely detached. You fished out a rag, this one was clean. No matter how much you tried to avoid it, a trend would eventually infiltrate your brain slowly building up until you believed it to be your very own original thought.

Ouch!

You sucked in your teeth to mask the pain. The blade had sliced your hand leaving a rip in the rag. Blood was dripping down, a few drops splattered onto the lifeless body. Using the same rag to clean up your wound would be pointless and unsanitary.

You were paralyzed. You could not tear your eyes off of the blood. Funny how different it was seeing your own. Calming, almost. You found serenity in knowing how mortal you were, how much a simple blade could change your life. At the moment, that did not scare you, instead it made you more grateful for the life you had. That life did include having to lug a dead body across the room though so you left some room for annoyance. It would be prudent to clean your cut before moving the body.

But again, you were frozen.

Though you knew that the real point of these attempts at virality were not only to make a grand spectacle, a middle finger to those haphazardly managing the environmental crisis and taking themselves out for humanity, but an effort to elongate one’s life. Quite ironic, of course, as it was hard to imagine opening up a freezer to a human head and feeling proud of their sacrifice. Nothing but a vapid trophy.

It was pointless. But what could you really do anyway?

Give in?

No, you needed to clean your cut. You were starting to feel a little woozy. You always wondered how much blood you could lose before passing out and felt you were definitely close to finding the answer.

”It’s Aaron’s birthday!” A voice shouted.

You flinched, hitting the lever on the side of the guillotine. The sharp blade came crashing down leaving you no chance for thought, only instinct. You veered away from the ancient machine falling to the floor.

A gasp was the first thing you heard.

“Oh my god! Are you, like, okay?” Emma said.

You were fine.

“I was…I was cleaning the blood off of it.”

She helped you off the ground. “Okay, whatever. There are cupcakes in the break room for his birthday. Are you coming or not?”

The guillotine took up half the room, but looked so small, so inconsequential that you imagined kicking it over and ending this hollow trend.

”Yep, gimme a minute.”

How bad would it be if you did?

——

The cupcake was dry and the sour frosting lobbed on top did not help. It was disorienting to be in a room filled with people, noise, and joy after being sequestered for most of your day. You found a quiet corner to linger. Coworkers milled around the break room complaining about grocery prices, the weather and vacation plans. You heard some talk of quitting, people putting in their notice as soon as the other did, even a few jokes about using the guillotine themselves. They could poke fun at the trend because they did not have to deal with the fallout. Things seen from a comfortable distance never quite had the impact as seeing it up close.

The mumbles died down, laughter and then silence.

“What would you do?”

You picked your head up. They were talking to you. Emma flitted her hand in front of your face to get your attention. Your colleagues expected a response from the person closest to the situation.

This question needed little contemplation.

“I would end it all.”

You could hear a pin drop. Clearly, suspicions of a slightly manic janitor had been confirmed. You did not care to elaborate, but knew your coworkers were expecting an explanation.

“Woah, really?” Shifting her feet like an impatient horse in its stall. “That’s pretty dark.”

It appeared that they had misunderstood, that was okay, you had lived a life full of confusion at your lack of eloquence. You had an ability to bottle things up and generally played the silent game with the world. You had not meant that you would want to use the guillotine yourself, you wanted none of that whatsoever. You really wanted to escape the haze of inaction.

“I guess people have done dumber things and gotten globally recognized for it. But, isn’t it kinda sad?” A man sipping green tea piped up. You were pretty sure he was one of the gallery attendants.

“No, it makes sense. People want to be preserved and leave a legacy. I’d do it but I feel bad for our friend over here.” The ticket saleswoman pointed to you lazily.

Once again, they all looked at you, but you were looking at the lighter on the table. You missed the song so you weren’t really sure which one Aaron was, the one with the birthday hat on…maybe. They didn’t understand.

“You don’t get it.” You said, clenching your fists. “I want to end it.”

Emma closed in on you. She had her arms open, oh god, she was trying to give you a hug. “Hey, it’s okay. We can talk about this.”

Swiftly, you ducked out of her embrace. You needed to make your own decision, unfettered by the social zeitgeist, one that came from you and you alone. You tossed all that remained of the cupcake into the garbage and picked up the lighter from the table. On your way out the door, you could hear your coworkers piling out of the small break room.

“Dude, it’s really not worth it.” He came out with his tea in hand. “You’d be the idiot who wanted to ‘live forever’, but we would forget you by the end of the day. Even if you filmed it.”

Okay, that was a little harsh. You knew they were trying to talk you off of your imagined ten foot ledge, but damn.

“I have to do this.” Defiant as you addressed the crowd. The lighter slipped into your pocket. Funny how they did not want you to go, but they could not stop watching. A live reenactment of the trend that had been so prevalent on social media.

With that, you walked in the direction of the French History exhibit.

How did a trend die? Not with countless deaths all pining after the same thing. Not even with comments constantly bashing the people that do it.

A single opinion.

Originality and the choice to be different.

So there you went, lighter in hand.

You killed them.

The idea at least.

In the end, it only took one.