Karla Thorne has been writing since she was old enough to hold a pen. Three decades later it’s been a lifelong love affair. A common theme she’ll never get tired of exploring is the darker side of human behavior.
She currently lives in the deep south with her husband, three children, and their rescue pup while she works on her debut horror novel, Still Dark Places.
Stalk her on her substack right HERE.
GRAVEYARD SHIFT
by
Karla Thorne
It’s my coworker, Vikki’s, twenty-ninth birthday. She turned twenty-nine last year as well but no one will call her out on it. Personally, I don’t give a shit about Vikki or how many birthdays she’s had. She’s a cunt. Has been ever since she got it in her head that I’ve been stealing her drinks from the break room. Since then I’ve gotten passive aggressive emails about every little thing that inconveniences her throughout the day from trash left in the break room to the toilet not being flushed. My other coworkers know it’s not me doing all these things but that doesn’t stop them from turning a blind eye to it. They’re all spineless. They’re just happy it’s me and not them.
Today that all ends.
Birthdays are one of the only good things about my job. It means a break from the routine. Most days it’s just my cubicle, the light clicking of fingers on a keyboard, and the chatter of the same script being read dozens of times to strangers who couldn’t care less. Answer with a smile. The clients can hear your smile through the phone. I hear my supervisor’s voice in my head each time I answer. I smile until my cheeks hurt. It’s enough to drive one mad. Suffice it to say I appreciate some relief from the monotony, even if it means celebrating a bitch like Vikki. At least there will be cake.
We all crawl from our little boxes and herd into the break room where administration has decorated the walls in cheap dollar store décor. We sing an off key rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ as Jen from accounting walks in last carrying the cake that I spent hours making last night. Everyone had been surprised when I volunteered to bake it myself considering Vikki’s treatment of me. They all assume it’s a kiss ass attempt at peace. Vikki beams, managing to tear up as she thanks us all for making her feel special. There’s no special thanks to me for spending all night making intricate fondant flowers just for Jen to shove twenty-five cent candles right in the center of them. Rage pools hot behind my ears but I can’t let it take over. Not today.
I manage a smile when Vikki’s eyes land on me. I see her warring with an appropriate response that won’t reveal herself the bitch she is. Everyone has been fussing over how beautiful my work is since she blew the candles out. She can’t very well snub it now so she decides on the high road.
“Thank you, Fern. You shouldn’t have gone through this much trouble for me.”
“It’s no trouble at all.” I say waving her forced compliment off.
“This must have taken hours. I feel guilty cutting it.” She laughs but lets the blade come down hard in the center.
“Here, let me. It’s bad luck to cut your own cake.” I take the knife from her and cut her a thick slice and offer it up to her on a plate. She hesitates and for a moment I worry she won’t take it. What will I do if she doesn’t? What will I - My shoulders relax when she finally takes the plate from me putting on a show of taking a bite. I go to work dividing the rest of the cake and offering it up to the rest of my coworkers. They accept them eagerly.
“Is this cinnamon?” Cheryl from processing asks.
“It is. It’s my own recipe.”
“You’ll have to write it down for me. So good!”
I nod even though writing anything down for her would be useless.
I’m beginning to worry I messed up the measurements when I see Vikki’s hand move to her stomach. Considering the time frame since she finished her second slice it makes sense she’d be the first one impacted by the poison. No one even has time to notice that something is off before she coughs, spewing red liquid all over the break table. The room falls silent. All eyes are on Vikki who is keeled over, bracing herself over the assortment of red splattered sweets, her eyes widened in horror. When she looks up at me, knowing washes over her pale face. Everyone had been so consumed with their mindless chatter that they hadn’t noticed I didn’t have a slice. Before she can react a wet, guttural sound escapes her throat. Her hands grip her abdomen again and the contents of her stomach, a mix of bile, blood, and half digested cinnamon cake spews from her mouth and onto the table. Far more blood than any one person should lose at one time. She retches again, this time covering Saul, our boss, in the muck. Cheryl opens her mouth to help but instead the same bile erupts from her, covering Vikki and several others that were unfortunate enough to be standing too close.
The room erupts in chaos. It’s almost funny watching everyone scrambling to help the other only to succumb to their own dose of the poison.
Max from maintenance runs for the door of the break room in an attempt to call for help. He doesn’t make it far beyond the threshold before falling to his knees and emptying his stomach onto the tile floor that administration complains never gets mopped enough. I don’t blame him for trying. He couldn’t have known how futile that attempt would be. By the time help arrives everyone will be dead already. Everyone except me.
I make my way back to my desk as one by one the screams fade into silence. I open my email and select the option to ‘Delete All.’ With a click they’re gone. So quick. So easy. It’s almost like they never existed. Pretty soon it’ll be like none of them ever existed.
The phone on my desk rings and for the first time, answering with a smile is easy.