Office Puppet Strings

The stage lights were too bright. They always were, but from the third row, they felt like a personal attack, a spotlight on every inadequacy Claire had cataloged in the thirty seconds since she’d sat down. The velvet seat was sticky. The air smelled like popcorn butter and desperation. And three seats to her left, laughing too loudly at something her boyfriend whispered, was Marissa.

Perfect Marissa. Blonde, tan, legs that went on for days, and a laugh that sounded like wind chimes if wind chimes were designed to make you want to throw them into traffic. She worked two cubes down from Claire at Henderson & Tate. They were both junior accountants. They both had the same job title. But Marissa got the corner office with the window because she smiled at the right people. Claire got the desk next to the copier that jammed every seventeen minutes.

Their eyes met. Marissa’s smile flickered, a tiny crack in the porcelain. She looked away first.

Small victory.

Claire grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bucket in her lap. It was stale. Everything about tonight was stale. Her friend Rachel had dragged her here, a last-minute replacement after Rachel’s date canceled. “It’ll be fun,” Rachel had said. “A stage hypnosis show. R-rated. Think of the stories.”

Rachel was now three rum and Cokes deep and giggling at the pre-show announcer, a man in a sequined jacket who was telling the audience to turn off their cell phones. “As if,” he said, his voice booming, “you want your boss seeing the video of you clucking like a chicken.”

The crowd laughed. Claire did not. She was too busy watching Marissa lean into her boyfriend, a guy named Brad or Chad or something equally forgettable, his hand resting on her bare thigh. She wore a dress the color of a bruise. It cost more than Claire’s rent.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said, “please put your hands together for the one, the only, the master of the mind, Doctor Damien!”

The lights dropped. A single spotlight hit the center of the stage. Smoke rolled out from somewhere, dry ice that smelled faintly of cough syrup. And then he walked out.

Doctor Damien was not what Claire expected. No top hat. No cape. He was maybe forty, with salt-and-pepper hair combed back, a sharp black suit, and a face that looked like it had seen things. He smiled, but it wasn’t a performer’s smile. It was a smile that said he knew something you didn’t.

The crowd cheered. He held up a hand.

“Good evening, Portland.” His voice was smooth, warm, the kind of voice that could sell you a car you didn’t need or talk you into bed before you realized you were undressed. “I’m Doctor Damien, and no, that’s not my real name. But it sounds better than Steve from accounting.”

Laughter. Claire felt herself relax a fraction. Okay. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“Tonight, we’re going to have some fun. We’re going to explore the power of suggestion. The power of the mind.” He paced the stage, hands in his pockets, casual as a man walking his dog. “But I need volunteers. I need people who are willing to let go. People who are tired of being in control.”

His eyes scanned the crowd. Claire looked down at her popcorn.

“You.” He pointed. A guy in the front row stood up, grinning. “And you.” A woman in a red dress. “And you.” He kept pointing. People stood. The crowd clapped.

Then his finger stopped. It was aimed directly at Claire.

“You. Dark hair. Blue dress. Yes, you.”

Claire’s stomach dropped. She shook her head, a tight, frantic motion. “No. No, I’m good.”

“That’s what they all say.” His smile widened. “Come on. Live a little. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Rachel shoved her. “Go. It’ll be hilarious.”

“I don’t want to.”

But Rachel was already waving her hand. “She’s coming! She’s just shy!”

The crowd turned. Eyes on her. Claire felt her face burn. She could hear Marissa’s laugh, that horrible wind chime sound, and she knew if she didn’t go up, she’d never hear the end of it. She’d be the coward. The one who couldn’t take a joke.

She stood.

The walk to the stage felt like a mile. Her heels clicked on the floor. The spotlight followed her, hot on her back. She climbed the stairs and took her place in a line of eight other volunteers, most of them grinning, one guy already swaying like he was drunk.

Doctor Damien stood in front of them. He looked at each one, his gaze lingering on Claire for a second longer than the others.

“Relax,” he said, soft enough that only she could hear. “I’ve got you.”

She didn’t believe him.

The other volunteers were a mixed bag. There was the grinning guy, Dave, a construction worker with a beer belly and a loud voice. There was the woman in red, Priya, who looked like she’d been dragged here by friends. There was a college kid named Tyler who kept cracking his knuckles. And there, at the end of the line, was Marissa.

Of course.

Marissa had been picked third. Claire hadn’t seen it happen. She’d been too busy trying to disappear into the floor. But now they were both here, on the same stage, under the same lights, and Marissa was looking at her with an expression that was half amusement, half irritation.

“You,” Marissa mouthed.

Claire mouthed back, “Me.”

Doctor Damien clapped his hands. “Alright, volunteers. I need you to sit in these chairs. Relax. Breathe. This is going to be easy.”

There were ten chairs arranged in a semicircle. Claire sat in the third one. Marissa sat in the fifth. Two empty chairs between them. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to feel her presence.

The lights dimmed further. The audience went quiet.

“Close your eyes,” Doctor Damien said. His voice dropped, became a low, rhythmic hum. “Listen to my voice. Nothing else exists. Just my voice. Just the sound of my words.”

Claire closed her eyes. She felt stupid. She felt exposed. But the voice was warm, and the chair was surprisingly comfortable, and she was tired. God, she was so tired. The constant grind of work, the passive-aggressive emails from Marissa, the way her mother called every Sunday to ask if she’d met anyone yet. It all pressed down on her like a weight.

“Breathe in,” the voice said. “Hold it. Now let it out. Feel the tension leave your shoulders. Your neck. Your jaw.”

She let it out. Her shoulders dropped.

“You are safe. You are relaxed. You are in a place where nothing can hurt you. Nothing can bother you. It’s just you and my voice.”

The world softened. The edge of the stage, the smell of popcorn, the hum of the crowd. It all faded. There was only the voice, deep and sure, wrapping around her like a blanket.

“When I count to three, you will open your eyes. You will feel refreshed. Alert. Happy. And you will be completely, utterly open to suggestion. One.”

She felt a shift, like a door opening in her mind.

“Two.”

She wasn’t sure she wanted the door open.

“Three.”

She opened her eyes.

The lights were still bright, but they didn’t hurt anymore. The audience was still there, but they felt distant, like faces in a photograph. She felt light. Floaty. Like she’d had two glasses of wine on an empty stomach.

Doctor Damien was looking at her. At all of them. He smiled.

“Wonderful. You’re doing great. Now, we’re going to start simple. I want you to stand up.”

Claire stood. So did everyone else. The movement was easy, natural, like she’d been planning to stand all along.

“Now, I want you to imagine that your left hand is tied to a string. A string that’s pulling it up. Up toward the ceiling. You can’t stop it. It’s just rising.”

Her hand rose. She watched it happen, detached, curious. It lifted until her arm was straight above her head.

“Good. Now your right hand. Same thing. Rising. Rising.”

Her right hand followed. She stood there, arms up, like a child waiting to be picked up.

The audience laughed. She heard it, but it didn’t bother her. Nothing bothered her.

“Now,” Doctor Damien said, “I’m going to snap my fingers, and when I do, you’re going to forget that you’re on stage. You’re going to forget the audience. You’re going to think you’re at a party. A really, really good party. And the music is about to start.”

He snapped.

The audience vanished. The stage became a living room. A nice one, with soft couches and a fireplace and a stereo playing something with a beat. Claire felt her hips sway. Her arms dropped. She started to move, a loose, easy dance.

Beside her, Dave was doing the robot. Priya was twirling. Tyler was trying to breakdance and failing spectacularly.

And Marissa.

Marissa was dancing like no one was watching. Her hips rolled. Her head tossed back. Her hands ran through her hair. She was good. Really good. The kind of dancing that made you stare.

Claire stared. She couldn’t help it.

“Alright,” Doctor Damien said, his voice cutting through the music. “Freeze.”

Everyone froze. Claire’s body locked in place, one arm in the air, one leg bent.

“You’re at the party. You’re having fun. But now you realize you’re hungry. Very, very hungry. And the only food in the room is a giant banana. You’re going to eat it. But you’re going to eat it like it’s the most delicious, sensual thing you’ve ever tasted.”

He handed Dave a prop banana. Dave took it. He looked at it. Then he started to eat it, slowly, his eyes closed, making sounds that were way too loud and way too sexual.

The audience howled.

Claire didn’t laugh. She was too focused on the banana. She wanted one. She could almost taste it, sweet and creamy on her tongue.

Doctor Damien moved down the line. He gave Priya a banana. Then Tyler. Then Marissa.

Marissa took hers. She held it like a microphone. She brought it to her lips. She took a bite, and her eyes fluttered shut, and she made a sound, a low moan that vibrated through the air.

Claire’s mouth went dry.

“You,” Doctor Damien said, and he was in front of her now. “You want one, don’t you?”

She nodded. She couldn’t speak.

He handed her a banana. It was cold. Smooth. She lifted it to her mouth. She bit into it, and the flavor exploded, sweet and soft, and she heard herself make a sound, a little gasp, and she didn’t care.

The audience was losing it. She could hear them, a wave of laughter and applause. But it was background noise, static, nothing compared to the banana.

The bit went on for another five minutes. They ate their bananas. They pretended to be cats. They thought their shoes were made of lead. They forgot their own names.

Claire lost track of time. It was just the voice, just the suggestions, just the easy float of obedience.

Then Doctor Damien clapped his hands. “Alright. I’m going to bring you back. Partially. You’ll remember everything. You’ll be aware of where you are. But you’ll still be open. Still suggestible. Alright?”

Everyone nodded.

“Good. On the count of three. One.”

The world sharpened.

“Two.”

She could hear the audience again.

“Three.”

She was back. Fully back. Standing on stage, ten chairs behind her, a banana peel at her feet. The audience was clapping, cheering. She felt a flush of embarrassment, hot and red, but it was mixed with something else. Excitement. She’d done it. She’d actually done it.

Doctor Damien was talking to the audience, telling jokes, working the crowd. Then he turned back to the volunteers.

“I have a special treat for you all,” he said. “I’m going to give you a little test. See how well you’re still with me. I’m going to ask you a question. I want you to answer honestly. Understood?”

Everyone nodded.

“Good. I want you to look at the person to your left. The person sitting next to you.”

Claire turned. Marissa was to her left. Two chairs over. Their eyes met.

“Now,” Doctor Damien said, “I want you to tell them one thing. One thing you’ve always thought about them. Something you’ve never said out loud. And you will tell them the truth. The absolute truth.”

Claire’s heart stopped.

She looked at Marissa. Marissa looked back. There was a flicker of something in her eyes. Fear. Recognition. They were both still under. Still suggestible. Still open.

Dave went first. He turned to Priya. “I thought you were really hot when you walked in.”

Priya blushed. The audience laughed.

Tyler turned to Dave. “I think you’re the kind of guy who yells at waiters.”

Dave’s face fell. The audience laughed harder.

Then it was Marissa’s turn. She turned to Claire. Her eyes were glassy, but focused. Her mouth opened.

“I think you’re threatened by me,” she said. Her voice was flat. Honest. “I think you hate me because I’m pretty and you’re not.”

The words hit Claire like a slap. The audience gasped. Someone laughed nervously.

Claire’s hands curled into fists. The floaty feeling was gone, replaced by something hot and sharp. But the suggestion was still there. She had to answer. She had to tell the truth.

Her mouth opened.

“I think you’re a shallow, vapid bitch who uses her looks to get everything she wants,” she said. “I think you’ve never worked a real day in your life. And I think you know it. That’s why you’re so threatened by me.”

The silence was deafening.

Marissa’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened. No sound came out.

Doctor Damien stepped between them. He was smiling, but his eyes were sharp, calculating. “Well, well, well. It seems we have a history here. You two work together?”

Claire nodded. Marissa nodded.

“Fascinating.” He rubbed his chin. “Absolutely fascinating. You know, I’ve been doing this for twenty years, and I’ve never seen a better setup. Two people who can’t stand each other, forced to be honest. It’s beautiful.”

He turned to the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, I think we have an opportunity here. A unique opportunity. These two clearly have some tension to work through. And I think I can help them.”

The audience cheered.

Claire wanted to run. Every instinct screamed at her to step off the stage, grab Rachel, and leave. But her feet wouldn’t move. The suggestion held her in place.

Doctor Damien turned back to them. He looked at Claire. Then at Marissa.

“I’m going to give you both a gift,” he said. “A suggestion that will change how you see each other. Permanently. It won’t make you forget what you said. It won’t make you like each other overnight. But it will make you see. Really see. The person behind the mask.”

He raised his hands. He placed one on Claire’s shoulder. One on Marissa’s.

“Close your eyes.”

They closed.

“You are going to feel a shift. A small one. A subtle one. When you open your eyes, you will look at each other, and you will see something you’ve never seen before. You will see the parts of her that she hides. The parts she’s afraid to show. And you will find them… interesting. Compelling. You will want to know more.”

His voice dropped. It became a whisper.

“And here is the trigger. The word that will bring this suggestion to the surface. Every time you hear it, the feeling will intensify. The word is… ‘Mirror.’”

He paused.

“When you open your eyes, you will remember everything. But you will feel different. You will feel curious. You will feel drawn. The rest of the show will proceed normally. But the seed is planted. Understand?”

“Yes,” they said together.

“Good. Open your eyes.”

Claire opened her eyes.

The world was the same. The stage. The lights. The audience. But Marissa was different. She was still blonde, still tan, still wearing that bruise-colored dress. But there was something else. A crack in the armor. A flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. A tightness in her jaw.

Claire saw it. And she felt something shift in her chest. A pull. A curiosity.

Marissa was looking at her the same way. Her head tilted. Her lips parted.

“Alright,” Doctor Damien said, clapping his hands. “Back to your seats, everyone. The show isn’t over yet.”

The volunteers filed off the stage. Claire walked. Marissa walked. They sat in their seats, two rows apart, but it felt like they were still on stage. Still under the spotlight.

Rachel leaned over. “Holy shit. That was intense. Are you okay?”

Claire nodded. She didn’t trust her voice.

The show continued. More volunteers. More tricks. More laughter. But Claire didn’t hear any of it. She was too aware of Marissa. The way she shifted in her seat. The way her hand rested on her boyfriend’s arm. The way she kept looking over her shoulder.

Their eyes met. Held.

Marissa looked away first.

But this time, it felt different. It felt like a retreat. Like she was scared.

The show ended. The lights came up. The crowd shuffled toward the exits. Rachel was talking, something about getting a drink, but Claire wasn’t listening. She was watching Marissa stand, take her boyfriend’s hand, walk toward the aisle.

They passed Claire’s row.

Marissa stopped.

“Hey,” she said. Her voice was quiet. Uncertain.

Claire looked up.

“What you said up there,” Marissa said. “About me being threatened by you.”

Claire waited.

“You’re not wrong.”

Marissa walked away. Her boyfriend followed, confused, asking questions she didn’t answer.

Claire sat there. The room was emptying. The lights were dimming. Rachel was tugging her arm.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

Claire stood. She followed Rachel out of the theater, into the cool night air. The street was crowded with people, laughing, talking, heading to bars and cars.

She looked for Marissa. Didn’t see her.

But she felt her. A thread, thin and bright, pulling tight between them.

She didn’t know what it meant. She didn’t know what would happen tomorrow, when they were back in the office, back at their desks, back to the same old dance.

But she knew one thing.

She wanted to find out.