Case: Clara, age 8

I’m Pain. I clock in at 8:47 sharp—never late, never early.

I’m what you humans call an “Emotion”. We see all of you, you only see who you’re assigned.

I’m good at my job. Busy. Humans are such clumsy meat machines—twisted ankles, scraped knees, broken bones, I just adore the physical limits of your bodies. It makes my job so… satisfying.

“Watch it!” Anger shoulders past me, slamming her destination into the teleporter panel. She steps onto the pad, flickers, and vanishes—but not before flipping me off.

Anger is always so classy.

I find my name on the assignment board.

Case: Woman, age 37

Cause: Twisted ankle

Assigned: Pain

I step onto the teleport and moments later, I see my first case: a wobbling woman in heels. “Ugh, my feet are killing me!” She groans, right on cue, after my wink at her ankles. My favorite way to inflict, well, me.

A glance at her dossier said she basically deserved what happened next. Sharon: executive bitch, awful stilettos.

She clacks to the edge of the sidewalk, turns for a taxi, and sees me.

“Shit.”

She stumbles back, trying to run—they always do. They don’t realize it’s a perfect set up. I wink. She misses the sidewalk.

Everyone hears the snap. Sickeningly sweet.

Her screams fade as I teleport back to the assignment board.

Case: Girl, age 8

Cause: Loss of pet+

Assigned: Pain

This doesn’t make sense. I do physical pain, not death. What’s the plus sign?

“Busy day?” Sadness asks beside me.

“Geez, you scared me.” I jump.

“I wasn’t assigned to you,” Fear says, plucking their own assignment and stepping onto the teleporter. How distracted am I to not notice them?

“No, I am just … this should be yours.” I point at the paper.

Sadness narrows her eyes. “There’s never been a mistake before.”

“Whatever.” I snatch the dossier and teleport.

The little girl is speaking to her stuffed animals on her bed “… and Toby won’t be back for teatime anymore, but—”

Her back stiffens. She turns to me, eyes bright and knowing.

“Hello. I’ve been expecting you.”

My jaw flops open a few times. I expected wailing, crying, Sadness to be on my heels.

My dossier! I flip through it as her piercing blue eyes cut through me. I feel… judged. “Um, I—”

“You’re here because Ms. Death took Toby away to play with her.” The girl says. She sits and pats the bed beside her. Such confidence, maturity.

I slip the dossier in my pocket and sit with her. We sit in silence. Her breath comes in small rasps. What is this? Why am I here?

“My job…” My voice trails in the room.

She nods.

For the first time, I reluctantly wink.

She slides closer, grabs my hand, rests her small head on my shoulder. They’ve never touched me before. I panic. Did it not work? I wink again.

“I felt it the first time.” She whispers.

We sit. Time drips by. Her Disney Princess clock chimes three times. Then four.

Sadness appears at the door, nodding to me. Of course. She’s next on the roster. Pain, Sadness, and Loneliness won’t be far behind. The little girl doesn’t react. I don’t expect her to. The maturity of this one… baffling.

“Clara?” A voice calls from downstairs.

“Oh, no. Mom is home.” She rips her hands away and stands. “Goodbye.” She squeezes her eyes shut.

I sigh. “It doesn’t work—” the room flickers. “—that way.” I finish, now standing in front of the assignment board. “How…”

“Sometimes they have the power of Compartmentalization.” Sadness drones from behind me.

I turn. She watches me with her soft eyes. “She pushed you out. Keen ones do that. When we’re too much.”

“Not even the dying ones can do that. Right?” I demand. She shrugs. “Well, I wasn’t doing anything.” I snap. My voice is sharper than I intend. “I was just there.”

“Exactly. That’s enough.” She waves her hand.

All I can think about is Clara. My stomach twists into something unfamiliar.

“She grabbed me,” I say. “Humans never—they don’t touch us.”

“She’s not afraid of you. We all know Clara. Her life is tragic and beautiful. But she is only eight. Think: it’s your first time meeting her.” Sadness plucks her next assignment and teleports.

“Not afraid of me? Hm.” This next assignment will be remarkable.

Case: Man, age 38

Cause: Stress fracture

Assignment: Pain

I stomp onto the platform. The unread dossier crumpled in my fists. How hard can this be?

I flicker into an auto body shop. Perfect. A lot of toys here.

A mechanic struggles to lift an engine. I traipse behind him, breathing in his tangy body odor. “Is this the CRX-86?” I whisper, winking.

“What? That doesn’t exist—” His head jerks toward me. His eyes bulge. “Stay away!” He thrashes, hits his head on the hood, staggers back toward the pit. I wink again, harder, making it feel normal again.

His boots slip on the oily edge. Arms pinwheel. He disappears. A wail echoes up. The crack isn’t as satisfying as Sharon’s snap was.

I loom over him from the edge, relishing my work. Yes. This is what I do.

His eyes flick to me, tears in them. Damnit, Sadness will be here any minute.

“Not today, no. Please.” The mechanic pulls himself up the ladder. I wink with each rung. I feel the groove.

He limps into an office. Sadness stands behind him. He feels her chill, turns, she does a tiny wave. Tears erupt as he dials his phone.

She catches my eye and floats over to me.

“Oh,” she says, “you’re here.”

“Why do you think he’s crying? I’m doing my job.” My words come out bitter. Sadness has been a bit suffocating, riding the coattails of my assignments.

She drifts closer. “Is it?”

I bristle. “Of course it is.” But my confidence falters. The mechanic’s tears gleam—feeling deeper than what I caused.

Sadness watches him, “He’s going to have to take time off work.” She turns her gaze to me, “You’re slipping.” She says softly.

My throat tightens. “I am not.”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

“Then why are you shaking?”

I look down. My hands tremble.

“Goodbye, Pain.” She snaps her fingers.

I’m back at the assignment board.

“Seriously? How does this keep happening?” I yell. Humans touching and teleporting me. And now we can do it to each other? Did I miss a memo?

Let’s be real—I never read my mail. So, honestly…

I dawdle toward my cubicle. Dust motes dance on my desk. I shoo them away and sit.

8,763,976 Unread E-Mails

I click through the most recent when I see my birthday e-mail from two days ago:

Happy 1,000th birthday.

Current responsibility: Physical Pain.

Standing: Exemplary.

Next level opens today: Emotional Pain. Look for a +.

Next level: 2,000th birthday.

There it is.

I have to navigate something I’ve never done before?

Training to inflict pain was torturous in the best way. Broken bones. Sprains. Burns. Bruises. My graduation thesis video is a symphony of snaps, cracks, and screams.

But this?

I scroll.

Required Competencies:

1. Empathy

2. Presence

3. Witnessing

I gag. Empathy? Presence?

What am I, Comfort?

I slam the monitor off. The dust motes scatter like startled birds.

This is ridiculous. Why do I get more responsibility for being older and amazing at my job?

I twist ankles. I break bones. I elicit human screams.

I don’t sit on beds with little girls and hold hands. I don’t tremble in auto shops.

But I did.

I stand up so fast my chair skitters back. I trudge back to the assignment board, breath heavy.

Case: Woman, age 37

Cause: Burn

Assignment: Pain

No plus sign. Good. Easier. Something normal.

I step onto the teleporter, waving back to Sadness I see hovering around the board.

I flicker into a kitchen. Sharon hobbles around, trying to make dinner. She must really be a bitch if I’m assigned to her twice in one day. I smile at my work.

She flicks on an empty burner, stirs sauce, whispers to herself. “Please eat something tonight,” she says, pulling a pot from a cabinet.

“I’m not hungry.” I giggle and wink.

She screams—music to my ears—drops the pot—not music—and loses her balance. Her hand suctions to the glowing burner.

A blood-curdling scream. You deserve it, Sharon.

“Mommy?” Clara runs in. “Mommy, what happened?”

Wait.

“Nothing, dear. Mommy lost her footing and burned her hand.” Sharon says, running cool water on it.

Clara looks around. “Are you here?” She asks.

Sharon looks at me, brows furrowed. Rage and understanding flare through her eyes. “No, he’s not here anymore.” Her face softens toward Clara. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Is this Witnessing? Witnessing the aftermath of my doing?

Gross. Not a fan.

Sharon’s phone rings. She talks to her husband—the mechanic.

This is too much. The room tilts. I step back, away from Clara and Sharon. I glimpse Sadness in the doorway as I force myself to teleport out.

I clock out.

In a thousand years of service, I clock out early.

How is this happening? I’ve never hit the same family more than once in a week. Well, except the Thumpersons. They were awful. You’d be hard pressed to find anyone who disagreed.

I drift into a fitful sleep.

8:47 A.M. I clock in. A new day. A new pain for Pain.

The assignment board refreshes with new assignments.

Case: Clara, age 8

Cause: Loss of pet+

Assignment: Pain

“You get a name, that’s interesting.” Sadness notes beside me.

“I don’t want to deal with her again. Not first thing in the morning,” I snarl.

“Think she’d agree?” Sadness asks softly.

My mouth falls open. She’s right. The promotion floats in my mind. More responsibilities. I’m great at physical pain, I’ll be great at emotional pain.

The irony catches in my throat. If I’m great, Clara will be devastated. I study her dossier. Then the unread, crumpled one from earlier. Then Sharon’s. None of it helps. None of it tells me how to do this.

An hour vanishes. My cubicle lights red for the first time in a thousand years. I’m late. Clara won’t mind.

I dash to the teleporter; dossier committed to memory. Sadness gives me a little wave.

I flicker into Clara’s room. She sits on her bed. Toby’s collar in her hand. “He was my alarm clock.” Her voice cracks. She pats the spot beside her.

Okay. I got this.

I sit. She’s so small, but her strength radiates like a heat lamp. “You hurt mommy and daddy.”

Not a question. Her eyes meet mine. I forgot how piercing they were.

I nod, stifling a cry.

“Do you like your job?”

“Not right now.”

“That happens. How does it work?”

“I wink.”

“Winks are supposed to be fun. I am ready when you are.”

A lump forms in my throat. I wink. Again, no outward reaction. What am I supposed to do?

“I… used to think everyone deserved it.” I stammer.

“How come?”

“It was my interpretation.”

“That’s what Beauty told me.”

“Beauty?”

“She visits during teatime with the animals because I wear my princess dress. She said you may come when Toby got sick. She said I couldn’t appreciate her until I meet you.”

“…and?”

“I agree. She said natural beauty goes beyond gowns and tiaras, but many people don’t realize that. When Ms. Death took Toby, she said Beauty’s in the moments we cherish. The time we spent together.”

“Clara you—” I stop. We’re holding hands. She’s been facing me this whole time, drinking me in.

On impulse, I pull her close and hug her.

I hug a human.

Her shuddering breath tickles my chest. She’s weak from hunger. She hasn’t eaten in days because of Toby, not for Sharon’s lack of trying.

Sharon—perceived bitchiness? Just clawing to survive the concrete jungle of deadlines and backstabbers.

And Paul—breaking his back ninety hours a week at the auto shop.

Both did so to afford vet bills, mortgage, school care, groceries. Princess dresses. Why did I think they deserved it? It’s my job, but…

They both just wanted more for Clara.

This little being somehow upended my understanding of my role. I was certain I knew this job—and myself. But now?

“Growing older is a scam,” I say into her hair.

“Wait until you get to my age,” Sadness says from the doorway.

I turn, covering Clara’s ear. “Go away.” I whisper.

“It’s okay.” Sadness says gently.

“C’mon. Can’t you see we’re—” I hiss. Clara lifts her head, confused. I nod toward Sadness.

Clara glances at the doorway, then back, shaking her head.

“Sorry, my time must be up if she’s here.” I say, standing up from Clara’s bed.

“Who?” Clara asks, looking at the doorway once more. I freeze.

Cold slides down my spine. The air becomes thick with something unfamiliar.

I turn slowly toward Sadness.

Her eyes are soft, knowing. “I’ve been assigned to you. You can’t do emotional pain alone. You’ll learn none of us can. Besides, Clara and I are old friends.”

Her words hit me with a weight I’ve never felt before.

I stumble back. “What?”

“In order to fulfill your new promotion and help Clara, you must experience emotions yourself. It’s something I learned, too. Pride was my mentor as I am yours.”

“Pride?”

“Oh, Pain,” she laughs, “you have much to learn.”

She waves her hand. It sinks in—it’s my wink.

My stomach twists, I double over, falling to my knees.

“Consider this: Clara carried what you feel now for five years before she met you.”

“Is this your own pain?” Clara swoops down. The hollowness eases under her hand on my shoulder.

“It’s my own something.”

I struggle to comprehend… all of this. But through the hurt, I think: if Sadness is my mentor, I will be someone’s. Perhaps my 2,000th?

With Sadness’ help and Clara’s wisdom, I will be the best emotional pain she’s ever had. I laugh—how terrible does that look out of context?

“But enough about me!” I smile at her. Sadness looms in the doorway, but I tune her out. I must focus on Clara, be present.

I tuck her into bed and sit in the chair next to it.

For once, I don’t wink. I just stay.

“Tell me about Toby.”