Control (ENG)

1

I got a job as an assistant to get some extra money. I just needed to go wherever they told me, do whatever they told me, and that was it. Pretty easy. But I didn't hear from them at first. Every day I checked my texts, emails, missed calls, and nothing. I sent them several emails that they never answered. In some of those, I asked them if they needed any other documents for my hiring, not because I was worried about that specifically, but as an excuse to contact them and remind them of my existence. I also asked them if my schedule would be in the morning or afternoon, or where I would be working. I never asked them anything about my salary because, if they hadn't answered my other emails, they would certainly not answer that one. I must have sent around 5 or 10 emails and thought about sending them even more, but I gave up; I didn't want them to think I was desperate because I wasn't. They were the ones who needed someone, and if they didn't answer, that was their problem.

So I waited. I waited and waited. Sometimes I thought they might have regret hiring me, or maybe they wouldn't need me for a long time, or maybe it had all just been a joke and the job had never existed in the first place.

But one day I received a text. They sent me an address, a date, and a time. Nothing more. They didn't tell me what I was going to do, how long it would last, or how much they were going to pay me. But, well, if they kept me there too long, or the work was too hard or stressful, or they paid me too little, I could just quit. I had nothing to lose.

Next day I opened the maps app, entered the address they gave me, and went out. As I was driving, I kept glancing at my phone, certain that at any moment they would text me, asking where I was since I left home a little late.

But that text never came.

I went on and soon entered the highway. The further I went, the more I saw newly opened, or under-construction malls and plazas where once there had been poor neighborhoods that no one cared about. The cars coming in and out were increasingly bigger and more expensive. It didn't take too long to reach the address they gave me. It was surrounded by a huge wall, but I could still see its second or third floor. White walls, terraces, minimalist style. A modern mansion like almost any other.

I drove up a ramp and stopped in front of the gate. It was black and heavy. On one side, there was a camera pointed at me and a horn. I turned down the stereo a little and waited a bit for the security guard or someone to ask me what I was doing there or who I was going to visit.

But no one talked.

"Uhmm… Hello," I ended saying to the camera. "I'm Jorge Espinoza. You just hired me as an assistant, and—

The black gate opened slowly.

"Thanks," I told the camera or whoever opened the gate, and I went into a garage as big as empty. I parked in the closest spot.

I got out of my car and thought that maybe I should have dressed more formally; I was only wearing a soccer jersey, a pair of jeans, and some sneakers. But they didn't tell me anything about what to wear. Anyway, at that moment they texted me again to go inside the house, turn right, and enter the second room. Okay. I went up some steps at the entrance and knocked on the door, even though it was slightly open.

Nobody came.

I knocked again.

"Hello," I raised my voice hoping for a response.

But that place was dead silent.

Well, if they had already given me instructions on where to go, and the door was already open, it meant that they wanted me to come in, right?

So, I did. I approached the door to open it wide, but I noticed it had no knob, and it didn't have the hole where the knob should be.

Well, maybe they hadn't installed it yet, and that's why they didn't lock the door.

Anyway, I pushed the door and opened it wide. White walls and floors. The entrance was a tiny hallway with a mirror hanging on the wall to my right, and to my left, a vase on a dresser. Further ahead was a living room with a huge screen and several white couches covered in plastic. At the far end was a kitchen with a small dining area and some stairs.

And to the right was another hallway; this one was long and narrow, with more dressers, vases, mirrors, and white busts staring back at me. For some reason, they'd been positioned that way, pointing towards one end of the hallway. Anyway, there were also two doors. The first one was closed, and the second one was fully open.

Behind it was a small room. At one end was a chair, and in front of it, an old camera on a tripod. Behind it was an overly large mirror, almost as large as the wall.

They texted me again; they wanted me to scratch my head, one arm, one shoulder, one elbow, one knee, and behind one ear for at least 10 seconds on each spot. They'd pay $1,000 for that.

I sat down and saw the camera pointing at me, recording everything, and behind it, I saw my own reflection in that huge mirror. It was probably a two-way one. Probably whoever hired me was there, in the other room, watching me. Probably he or they were perverts who got off on things like that. But it was $1,000. $1,000 for scratching, and I wasn't even supposed to scratch my genitals or somewhere inappropriate. And there's nothing weird about scratching. It's not illegal to pay someone to scratch.

So why would they pay me so much for it?

Maybe they were going to upload the video somewhere. But it was just a video of someone scratching themselves. And if someone I knew found it, they'd only have a video of me scratching myself.

And I'd have $1,000.

So, I did it. I took out my phone, opened the timer app, and scratched where they told me to exactly 10 seconds on each part. I didn't even glanced at the camera or the mirror.

When I finished, they texted me that I'd completed the task, and my payment was at the entrance. I went back there and sure enough, in the small hallway, just below the mirror, there was a small open compartment. Inside of it was an envelope. I took it and opened it. Ten $100 bills. Authentic bills. And just from scratching. I made $1,000 in literally a minute. I don't know how many people make that kind of money that fast, but I don't think that many.

At that moment, my head felt pretty itchy, but I didn't scratch it. I just took the money, put it in my wallet, and left. I felt like a whore after her first job, even though I hadn't done anything weird. There was nothing weird about scratching. The weird thing was recording myself doing it, but it was them who recorded me. Not me. And whatever they were going to do with that video was their own business. I hadn't done anything wrong. It wasn't illegal to get paid for scratching my head. There are people who do much worse things for much less.

Anyway, I went back home, took a shower, and then figured out the best way to spend my money.

2

A week later, they texted me to come back, and I honestly couldn't be happier; I had done and bought so many things with my salary that I couldn't stop thinking about what I could buy with the next one.

As I waited for that text, I began to think they'd never contact me again, that maybe all they wanted from me was that video of me scratching myself. Or maybe I hadn't done it right last time and that's why they weren't contacting me. Even though it was just scratching myself, how could I have messed it up? Who were they to decide whether I had done it wrong or not? If they wanted me to scratch myself in a specific way, why hadn't they told me? They just instructed me to scratch myself, and that's what I did.

Or maybe they just realized that paying someone $1,000 to scratch himself was a total waste of money.

Anyway, this time I wore Bermuda shorts and sandals to be more comfortable. I also got there quite late, but they didn't texted me about it, so that wasn't a problem.

The first thing I checked when I got there was the money compartment from last time. It was closed, barely noticeable under the mirror. There was no lock, handle, or anything else to open it manually. It was probably automatic.

Before getting in the room with the mirror and the camera, I decided to walk around that place a bit. First, I went to the living room and sat on the couches, but they were too stiff, as if no one had ever used them before. Then I went to the kitchen and opened the drawers. They were empty. I checked them all and found no cutlery, plates, or glasses anywhere. In the fridge, there was a six-pack of beer, a pack of ham, a pack of cheese, and a microwave pizza. Nothing else. Everything was new and sealed, as if someone had just bought it. In the cellar, there was only a loaf of bread and a pack of muffins. Yes, both new and sealed.

I went up the stairs. More mirrors, vases on dressers, busts pointing toward me, knobless doors, and even more silence.

And the lights were on. I looked around; I went back to the living room, the kitchen, the entryway. There were no windows anywhere. Just lightbulbs. I tried to find their respective switches to turn them off and see if there was a light source I hadn't noticed before, but I couldn't find them. Why would anyone design a house like that?

"Hello," I raised my voice, but didn't get any answer.

Anyway, I went up the stairs again, walked down the hallway and entered each of the rooms there. All of them were exactly the same: a bed with a mattress without sheets or cover but covered in plastic; a dresser under a vase and a mirror; a closet; and a bathroom. I opened the closet and the drawers, but they were empty. In the bathroom, there was always a toilet, a shower, a sink, a mirror, a sealed soap bar, and a full shampoo bottle.

The last door led to a laundry room, where there was a washing machine and a dryer, but no detergents or clothes, either clean or dirty. The washer and dryer still had that plastic covering them. Again, it looked like no one had ever used them, as if no one had ever lived there.

I left the laundry room and ran the tip of my index finger over one of the dressers. Not even a speck of dust. The floor was shining. There wasn't a smudge on any of the mirrors. The same in every bedroom, the kitchen, the living room. I paused for a moment and waited to hear something or someone, but there was only silence.

So, no one lived there, but someone was constantly cleaning it. Why? Because of me? But I was only supposed to go into the white room. What did it matter if the rest of the house was dirty? Why did they clean so thoroughly a house that apparently only I went to?

But what did I care? Whether someone lived there or came there had nothing to do with my work, so I went to the white room where I had been from the beginning. Now, in addition to the chair, the camera, and the mirror, there was a table with a couple of bbq ribs.

They texted me that I had to eat them.

And they'd pay me $2,000 for that.

$2,000 for eating ribs.

Yeah, whoever hired me should be one or many perverted billionaires. I imagined them spying on me and touching themselves from the other side of the mirror.

I sat at the table, looked at the camera, and smiled. If they wanted to pay me that much to eat ribs, that's what I was going to do. There were no napkins on the table, and I didn't see any in the kitchen either. I thought about a towel or toilet paper, but I didn't find any in the entire house.

There were no dishes or cutlery either, so I just grabbed a rib and immediately got my fingers filled with bbq sauce.

Maybe that was the fetish, that I end up all dirty with that.

Besides, I could just wipe myself with my t-shirt and then buy a new one with the $2,000 they were going to pay me.

Or simply I could just make as little mess as possible. They never specified how clean or dirty I should eat, so I carefully brought the rib up to my mouth, bit off a small piece so as not to get my lips dirty, and…

No.

What if they'd put something in the ribs? Poison or drugs or whatever? No one would pay $2,000 to film someone eating ribs. There had to be something else, something that made the investment worthwhile. Maybe they were going to put me to sleep and remove my organs or something. And maybe the first job they gave me was just so I'd trust them and eat those ribs.

Although if they wanted to kidnap me, take my organs, or something, they could have done it the first time. I entered that house on my own. They could have easily locked me in and done to me whatever they wanted.

Besides, they had already paid me $1,000 for scratching myself. If they wanted to kill me or whatever, wouldn't it be better to do it before paying me for the first time?

Yeah, probably those who saw me from the other side of the mirror were just a bunch of perverts who wanted to see me eat, and that's what I did.

When I finished, they texted me that I could pick up my money. I left the room, grabbed the envelope, and counted the money. 20 $100 bills. They immediately got stained with the barbecue sauce on my fingers, but hey, they were still worth the same. I put them in my pocket and left.

3

Again, a week passed before they contacted me again. This time, my salary had lasted much less than the previous one, so I was really expecting that text.

I went there in my pajamas because I'd overslept. They asked me to go in the morning, as usual, but I arrived in the mid-afternoon. Likewise, I never received a single text regarding my impunctuality.

And that's why I took all the time in the world before going to the white room. I went to the kitchen, and there was the same stuff as last time, so I grabbed the beers, the muffins, and made some sandwiches. I wish there were more stuff, but what else could I do? Clearly, if I didn't eat that, no one else would, and wasting food isn't good at all.

I went to the living room and sat on one of the couches, but it was too uncomfortable because of the plastic covering it, so I just took it off.

They never told me anything about it.

I tried to turn on the screen on the wall, but there was no remote anywhere, so I got up from the couch and searched for it, but to no avail. So, I turned it on manually and turned the volume up to maximum. Then I went back to the couch, took out my phone, and distracted myself with it. After several hours, I finished my sandwiches, beers, muffins, and grew bored of social media, so I put my phone away, left the trash there, and went to where I was always supposed to be.

Inside there was only the chair, the camera, and the mirror.

As always, they texted me the moment I got there, and on this one they asked me to cry for a minute.

And they'd pay me $10,000 for it.

Was that a joke? Did they want to mock me, humiliate me? Is that what it was all about?

Maybe. But they'd pay $10,000 for that.

And it was only a minute, nothing more.

Or I could just go back home and lose $10,000. Or I could get another job and work there for months to get those $10,000. Or I could go back home and cry for those $10,000 that I never got, and they wouldn't pay me anything if I cried there.

Besides, I had already humiliated myself with all the scratching and the bbq ribs. That wasn't that much different to cry in front of a camera, right?

Okay, so I sat down in the chair, looked around, and all I could find was the camera and my own reflection staring back at me. I looked away and thought about those sad movies where someone dies, like the wife or the child with cancer or whatever, but I didn't feel anything. I thought about my exes, the ones I cheated on and the ones who cheated on me. I thought about my parents, the way they yelled at each other before, during, and after the divorce; how easy it was for them to get over themselves and rebuild their lives with everyone else; how they only wanted to be with me to show each other that they cared, even though sooner or later they ended up abandoning me at home to go somewhere else and with someone else. I thought about the college careers I never finished because I had no fucking idea what to do with my life; about the degree I was currently pursuing because it was either that or getting a real job; about my grandparents, who at least tried to take care of me and didn't feel the need to leave me with someone else; about the pet I never had, maybe because my parents hated the idea of ​​me not being so alone; about all that silence that even shouting couldn't make me disappear; about the fact that I was so useless that even for $10,000 I couldn't do something as simple as cry; about the fact that no matter what I did, nothing changed and never would; and about that damn camera that wouldn't stop recording me.

I stood up and approached it. I certainly wouldn't give them the satisfaction of crying on film. I grabbed the tripod and turned it 180 degrees, so the camera was pointing at the mirror, where they were probably watching me.

But if the camera was pointing at the mirror, it was still pointing at me too, so I turned it back toward the wall, but I did it so abruptly that it ended up falling and breaking on the floor. Well, if they didn't want me to break it, they shouldn't have put it there in the first place.

"Sorry," I said to the mirror with a cynical smile, but they never answered me back.

And if they cared they could text me to tell me to be careful or that I was going to pay for the camera, but no. They never told me anything.

Although if they were going to pay someone $10,000 to cry, they'd probably have a lot of money. But how much? There were a lot of things in the house that could break.

I got out of the room and tried to open the one next to it, but, like all the doors in that house, it didn't have a knob, a handle, anything. I pushed it several times, but it was locked, and it probably just opened automatically, like everything in that house. Anyway, I grabbed one of the vases nearby. White porcelain, shiny and very noisy when it hit the floor. Its pieces scattered everywhere, as did the second and third vases.

I didn't get any texts about it.

Perfect. Did those busts on the hallways break the same way as the vases?

No. They only chipped a little bit.

Then I went to the living room, took off the plastic from the couches, and dropped the beer cans on them—even though they were practically empty. Too bad. I went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. All that was left was the microwave pizza. I took it out, heated it up, ate a slice, and scattered everything else on the couches.

Still no texts from them.

I was sure they'd seen me and were always watching me inside that house. Otherwise, how could they texted me at the exact moment I got into that room or finished whatever they'd asked me to do?

Or did they not care about what I did, even if I destroyed all their stuff?

Were they ignoring me?

I grabbed a bust from the hallway and threw it at the screen. There was a loud crash, shards of glass and marble flew everywhere, and the screen showed only a black spot where it hit and flickery colors. I took out my phone and stared at the screen for several minutes. But no texts appeared. Then I threw vases; I broke mirrors; I punched doors; I stained walls; I destroyed light bulbs, all the light bulbs, until the house was completely dark, and I left.

4

They texted the next day. At first, I didn't want to read it because I thought they might want me to pay for everything I'd destroyed or that they'd contacted the police. However, if they wanted to arrest me, they could've come directly to my house. My address was on my resume. They knew where I lived. They could've come at any time with several police cars. I imagined a bunch of officers handcuffing me and taking me to the station, where I'd only be allowed one call. Obviously, I'd call my grandparents.

I wondered how long it would take for my parents to arrive and perform the same old play, which consisted of screaming and crying loud enough that everyone there would believe the lie that they were suffering so much for the son they claimed to love so much followed by blaming each other for all my mistakes, all their mistakes (because they were too proud to admit they were their own), all the trouble they'd ever been in their lives; and then abandoning me just as quickly as they'd arrived, without even bothering to ask why the hell was I in there, much less if there was a way to take me out.

In fact, thinking about it that way, it was quite strange that those people who had hired me hadn't called the police beforehand. Why didn't they call them when I was destroying their house? Or when I left? Or during the night? Or this morning, a few hours ago? Why did they wait so long to contact someone, and why did they contact me?

Maybe they were going to blackmail me. They had me on tape doing everything from eating barbecued ribs to destroying a house. Maybe that had been their plan all along.

Saqué mi celular y revisé el mensaje que me mandaron; era igual que los anteriores, donde me citaban en la mansión de siempre a la hora de siempre.

I took out my phone and checked the text they sent me; it was the same as the previous ones, where they only told me to meet them at the same place at the same time.

Or maybe it was all a trap, maybe they wanted to kidnap me or kill me or whatever.

But they could have done that before, every single time I was alone in that place.

Even though that doesn't mean that they wouldn't do it if I went back there.

Or did they not know I had destroyed their house? No. They texted me the next day, even though it always took them a week. As always, something was off.

Anyway, after thinking about it for a long time and coming up with nothing, I decided to go back to that place. Maybe they still didn't realize what I'd done, and it wouldn't hurt to earn an extra $10,000, $20,000, or even $100,000 while I could. Besides, part of me wanted to see again how I'd left that place; I wanted to see the destroyed screen, the stained armchairs, the broken mirrors, the darkness.

I wore a soccer jersey, jeans, and sneakers, got in my car, drove to the mansion, and walked in, but everything was different than the way I'd left it: the mirror on the wall next to the entrance was there, intact, as if I'd never destroyed it; the living room couches were unstained and covered with the plastic I'd ripped off; I turned on the screen, and it was working perfectly, without the flickering colors or the huge black mark where the bust had hit it; there were no fragments of anything on the floor or anywhere; and all the rooms were as brightly lit as before.

I went to the kitchen and opened the fridge; there was a six-pack of beer, a package of ham, a package of cheese, and a microwave pizza, all new and sealed and arranged exactly as before. I opened the cellar. A loaf of bread and a package of muffins.

And in the hallway, everything was clean and in its place. It was as if I hadn't destroyed anything, or as if it didn't matter whether I had or not. Maybe that's why they wanted me to come, to show me that everything I'd done was useless, that they could fix everything I'd done in a single day. That's why they texted me so soon.

I grabbed one of the busts from the hallway and thought about throwing it against the mirror, smash everything again, write on the walls, throw the microwave against the fridge, and rip out the first door in the hallway, the one next to the white room. Maybe I'd find them in there, and maybe I'd beat them up, or maybe I'd even force them to scratch themselves, to cry, to humiliate each other while I filmed them.

Or I could invite my friends over, buy a ton of alcohol, let them invite everyone, and let it all get out of hand.

Even though that would mean more people would know about the place, and my friends would ask me about it, so I'd have to explain everything, and maybe some of them would try to contact the people who hired me to take my job away.

And what would I get from all that? In the end, I decided to do nothing and go into that room, where I found the mirror, the camera, and a single bed instead of the usual chair. I immediately received a message. They immediately texted me to sleep there.

And they would pay me $1,000 for that.

Only $1,000.

I immediately thought they were making fun of me by offering me so little. I'd earned the same amount just by scratching myself, or double by eating ribs. Sleep was a bit more difficult, especially since it was still a few hours before nightfall, and I often stayed up until dawn.

But it was $1,000 nonetheless, so I got to bed and lay down. It was quite comfortable. I closed my eyes, but the lights in the room were so bright they pierced through my eyelids.

I got up and looked for the light switch along the walls inside the room. I couldn't find one anywhere. I was about to leave, but I remembered there were no light switches out there either.

I went back into the room and glared at the huge mirror.

"At least turn them off," I told them, who should be spying on me through that double view mirror.

But the lights were still on.

Well, maybe the camera didn't have night vision, so if they wanted to film me, they couldn't turn off the light. Especially if they also wanted to watch me sleep.

Or maybe they just wanted to make fun of me by keeping me awake for hours, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. That's why they asked me to do it during the day, why they don't turn off the lights.

It was the same as last time, when they asked me to cry and I couldn't.

They were making fun of me by giving me tasks I wouldn't be able to accomplish no matter how hard I tried.

And that's why I left the room, grabbed a bust from the hallway, came back, smashed the light bulbs, groped my way around the dark room until I found the bed, lay down on it, and tried to sleep.

At first, I tried to stop thinking about anything.

I moved from one side of the bed to the other.

I covered myself with the sheets and covers, and I took them off when I got too hot.

I imagined them coming the moment I fell asleep to kill me, rape me, sell my organs or whatever.

I imagined how my parents, my grandparents, and my friends would react if, for some reason, they saw me trying to sleep at some stranger's house for the promise of $1,000.

And I also imagined waking up and taking the $1,000 they didn't think I'd earn.

Maybe hours passed, or just a few minutes, but despite everything, I remained awake.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to clear my mind, counting sheep, cursing them and myself over and over again.

And regardless I was still awake.

It got to the point where, fed up with being so useless, I got up and left the room to clear my head a bit. Maybe the beers would help me get to sleep, but the first thing I noticed as I walked down the hallway was that the other door was slightly open.

I approached it, but I stopped before entering. If it was open, it was because they'd left it that way. They wanted me to come in; it was part of their game, as well as showing me how quickly they cleaned the house after I'd wrecked it.

If I went in, I was just doing exactly what they wanted.

But surely, if they were there, I could finally see them and ask them why they were treating me that way.

Or maybe I could just kick their asses while I was there.

So I walked in. It was just an empty closet, with drawers and tubes. No one was there. There were no two-way mirrors on the walls, no trace that anyone had ever been there in the first place.

No one was ever spying on me.

Maybe even the camera in the other room was off and never recorded anything—I've never checked.

They were just playing with me, just mocking me by making me believe they were watching, t spying on me.

I yelled, I punched the walls. I wanted to go out and destroy everything, but what was the point? Nothing I said or did would have any real consequence. No matter what happened, everything would be the same as before. Everything was always the same as before, so I yelled and punched the walls until my throat burned and my knuckles bled. Then I sat on the floor, leaning against the wall. The tears flowed by themselves.

Why was it always like this? Why didn't anything I did ever matter? Why had I always been so useless?

Maybe that's why I always ended up alone.

Maybe it wasn't anyone's fault but my own.

How could they not make fun of me? They asked me to sleep, and all I could do was to lose it in a closet.

Suddenly, I got a text saying that I'd completed the task and that I could go pick up my money. For a moment, I thought it was a very old notification I'd forgotten to delete, but no, it had been sent less than a minute ago.

I got up and went to the entrance. Maybe they thought I'd fallen asleep because the lights in the room were off, so they hadn't seen me leave. I got there and the compartment was open. A thick envelope. I picked it up and opened it.

$10,000.

I checked my phone. Yes, they were only going to pay me $1,000 to sleep. Why were they giving me that much money?

And then I remembered. I put my phone away and brought my hand to my face. My cheeks were still damp from the tears I'd cried.

Just as they'd wanted.

I put the money in my pocket and left. Maybe they'd call me for another job soon, and maybe I'd come back; if they'd noticed I'd cried, it was because at least they were watching me.