“Make it stop.”
The whisper cuts through the noise before I register what the noise actually is, and then my phone is screaming at me from the nightstand, alarm blaring at a volume I specifically chose because it’s Monday.
I slap at the screen until it goes silent.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying not to laugh. I’ve spent years with the voices, and I’ve never once heard one complain about an alarm clock before. That’s a new one.
I sit up. My spine cracks in three places.
The blanket comes with me when I stand, wrapped around my shoulders like a cape, and I shuffle across the room to my desk. The delivery guys set it up yesterday while I was making my third trip from the car, and it looks exactly like what it is. A cheap particle board doing its best impression of actual furniture. My work laptop sits dead center. My seven-year-old gaming laptop, which miraculously can still play anything at all, sits to the right of it.
I drop into the chair and flip open the work laptop.
The screen blinks on. I wait through the boot sequence, then the login screen, then the slow crawl of my email client loading.
No new messages.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
Thank god. I was half-expecting to wake up to some urgent project or a meeting I’d forgotten about or one of those vague “can we talk?” messages from my manager that never goes anywhere. But the inbox is clear.
The house is quiet. Morning light is starting to filter through the window, pale and thin.
First full day in the new place.
I reach over and flip open my gaming laptop. The fan kicks in immediately, roaring like a jet engine for about ten seconds before it settles into its normal hum.
My work laptop makes a noise.
Not the usual ping from Teams. This one’s different. Tinny and cheerful in a way that doesn’t match anything I have installed.
I look at the screen.
There’s a window open that wasn’t there before. The UI looks wrong. Too blocky and grey, like it’s rendering from a different era entirely.
“What the...”
The top of the window says AOL Instant Messenger. There’s a little orange running man logo next to it. A box for text is below.
The white box contains text.
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: Get out of my house.
My gaming laptop finishes booting with a final triumphant whir.
I sigh, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
This is far from my first hallucination. Not even close. I’ve had full conversations with John Wilkes Booth before. I’ve seen faces in mirrors that weren’t mine. I once spent twenty minutes convinced there was a spider the size of a dinner plate on my bedroom wall before I realized I was the only one who could see it.
“Listen, Nicole,” I say out loud to the room. “I don’t mind if you want to talk to me. But if you’re going to message me, do it on this one.” I tap the chassis of my gaming laptop. “Not my work computer. That’s for work. I have to keep it separate.”
The AIM window blinks out.
For a moment I think maybe that’s it, maybe I’ve successfully set a boundary with my own brain, and then the window reappears on my gaming laptop screen.
Same blocky grey interface. Same username.
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: Get out before I kill you.
I can’t help it. I laugh. It comes out as more of a tired exhale, but it’s genuine.
“Nicole, this is not how two people become friends.”
The prompt sits still in the text box. Then new text appears.
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: FOAD
I stare at the screen. The four letters sit there like they mean something obvious, but I’ve got nothing.
“I don’t know what that means,” I say to the screen.
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: ...
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: r u dumb?
“No,” I say. “I’m not terminally online for this.”
Another pause. The empty text field stays quiet.
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: ...
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: It means fuck off and die.
A laugh escapes before I can stop it.
“Oh. That’s cute. I’ve never heard that one before.” I rest my chin in my hand. “Is that a nineties thing? Because I was born in 2001, so I missed most of that.”
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: JFC...
I squint at the screen. “What?”
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: ur literally so stupid
“Relax, Nicole.”
Nothing appears for a while. I wait.
“So last night in my dream,” I say to the screen, “when I saw you in your room. Do you remember that?”
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: Ya
“Your room is a mess. You should probably clean it up.”
The text box explodes with activity.
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: STFU
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: YOU DON’T GET TO TALK ABOUT MY ROOM
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: I HATE YOU
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: I’LL KILL YOU
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU
The messages come so fast I can barely read them before the next one appears. The AIM window starts shaking on my screen.
“Okay,” I say. “I hit a nerve. Got it.”
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT ME
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: YOU DON’T GET TO COME IN HERE AND
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: AND JUST
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: FUCK YOU
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU
The window stops shaking. The text box sits blank.
“Are you done?”
No response comes. The text box stays empty. Then the window disappears entirely.
I smile. “I’m sorry. I really would like to be your friend though.”
The room stays quiet. The morning light through the window has gotten a little stronger, turning the bare walls from grey to something closer to cream.
I listen for footsteps or whispers or the apparent AIM notification sound. Nothing. Just the hum of my gaming laptop’s fan.
The hallucinations are probably done for now.
My work laptop pings.
I tab over to Teams. A message from Bill sits at the top of my notifications.
Bill Hendy: 10 new files today. go gettem champ
I stare at the message. Bill’s the kind of manager who sends motivational quotes in the group chat and ends every meeting with “we’re all in this together” like we’re on some kind of team instead of just a bunch of people reviewing insurance claims from our separate apartments. He’s a moron, but at least he’s not a douche about it. It could be worse.
I click the thumbs-up reaction without typing a response. That’s good enough.
I push back from the desk and pad toward the kitchen. The coffee maker is still in its box on the counter from yesterday. I tear through the cardboard and pull it free, set it up next to the sink, fill the reservoir with tap water that comes out colder than I expect.
The coffee finishes brewing with a final sputter. I pour it into the one mug I unpacked yesterday, black, no sugar. The heat seeps through the ceramic into my palms.
Back at my desk, I pull up the first claim. A guy in Worcester who rear-ended someone at a stoplight. The computer algorithm already did its work, spat out a number based on damage estimates and medical reports and whatever other data it scraped together. My job is to look at that number and decide if it’s accurate.
More often than not, my job is to find a way to give less.
I scroll through the file. The medical report lists soft tissue damage, whiplash, three visits to a chiropractor. The algorithm assigned twelve hundred dollars.
I could approve it as-is. The number isn’t unreasonable.
Or I could flag the chiropractic visits as unnecessary and knock it down to eight hundred.
I flag them. Click the dropdown, select “treatment not medically necessary,” and move to the next file.
It’s an evil job. I know that. I’m not under any illusions about what I’m doing here. Every claim I reduce is someone getting less money for an injury that actually happened to them. Less than they deserve. But it’s not like I’m flush with options.
I work through three more claims. A fender bender in Quincy, a slip-and-fall at a grocery store in Lynn, a dog bite in Somerville. The algorithm gives me numbers. I look at the numbers. I decide if they’re too high. Most of the time they are, at least according to the justifications I type into the text boxes.
The coffee goes cold in my mug. I drink it anyway.
After six hours, I’ve processed eight claims. My eyes are starting to feel dry from staring at the screen. I roll my neck until it pops. I should probably get dressed at some point. Put on actual clothes instead of sitting here in boxers and a t-shirt with a blanket.
But the chair is comfortable and the work is mindless and I’m in that flow state where stopping feels harder than just continuing.
I pull up the ninth claim.
The AIM notification sound cuts through the quiet.
I glance at my gaming laptop. The blocky grey window is back, sitting in the corner of the screen like it never left.
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: wat r u doing?
I look at the message. The tone feels different this time. Still hostile, but there’s an edge of genuine curiosity buried underneath it. Like she’s been watching me work for the past few hours and finally got annoyed enough to ask.
“Working,” I say out loud.
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: lame
I laugh. It comes out as a single exhale through my nose.
“Yeah, well. Rent doesn’t pay itself.”
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: ur literally just sitting there
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: staring at a screen
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: how is that a job
I rest my elbows on the desk. “I review insurance claims. People get hurt, they file claims, and I decide if they’re getting paid what they filed for or less than that.”
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: so u just screw ppl over all day?
“Pretty much, yeah.”
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: thats fucked up
“I know.”
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: ur a bad person
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: u should kill yourself
That one gets to me. I feel a flicker of actual annoyance, which is rare. The voices in my head have said a lot of things over the years, but they only rarely get this unkind.
“Okay, listen. If I did that, I’d probably end up haunting this house with you. Is that what you want? Me here forever?”
The text field stays silent. No response.
I fold my arms and wait.
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: ...
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: no
“Then maybe dial it back a little.”
The box sits empty longer this time. I can almost feel the weight of her thinking about it, which is absurd because she’s not real, but the feeling is there anyway.
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: ur still a bad person
“I know I am.”
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: then y do u do it?
“Because I need money,” I say finally. “And this is the job I could get. It’s remote, they don’t care about my diagnosis, and I can do it from home without having to pretend I’m normal for eight hours a day. I had to trade my morality for stability”
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: ur diagnosis?
I pause. My fingers hover over the keyboard, then I decide to just say it out loud instead.
“I have schizophrenia. I hear voices. See things that aren’t there. My memory is very hazy at times and I can’t always tell what’s real and what’s not.” I gesture toward the gaming laptop. “Like right now. You’re not real. This conversation is just me talking to myself. But I’m treating it like it’s real because that’s easier than trying to sort it out in the moment.”
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: ...
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: ur telling me u think im not real?
“I know you’re not real,” I say to the screen.
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: >:-(
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: ur so annoying
“Also, you type like a kid. Didn’t you die when you were twenty-two?”
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: THIS IS HOW EVERYONE TYPED WHEN I WAS ALIVE!!!
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: UGH
Nicole_luvs_NSYNC: I HATE YOU!
I can’t help the smile that pulls at my mouth. “Hate me all you want, Nicole. But I think you’re kind of fun to talk to.”
The AIM window blinks out again.
I stare at the empty space on my screen where it was. The gaming laptop hums its usual drone. My work laptop sits open next to it, the ninth claim still waiting for me to process it.
“Guess she doesn’t want to talk anymore.”