Chloe Robinson

There is an inexplicable pleasure in working the opening shift. In working alone while the room is at peace, its walls standing silently around me without complaint as I lovingly tend to its every nook and cranny. The darkness hangs sleepily in the air like a weighted blanket, silencing the squeak of the floorboards, the scuttling of mice and the hum of the fridge. When it is quiet, like this, everything is alright.

The café was called Milo’s when it first opened, then Babycino’s, and now Common Room. Each owner who cycled through brought with them a new name, a new menu, and a new uniform. I’ve worked here since the beginning, the only constant through the many years this place has been standing. My presence in this space keeps it alive, and in return, her walls keep me safe. It feels as if I know this place better than I do myself. I know how to carry the mug with the wonky handle without spilling any coffee. I know how to sweep the corner that’s impossible to reach with the broom alone, how to work the sticky window, the latch on the door, I know which chairs squeak and which chairs don’t, the register, the fridge, everything. I watched this place grow, like a nanny caring for a child with an ever-changing cycle of mothers. I raised it, and it was mine.

According to the red numbers flashing above the microwave, I had 4 minutes until the owner was scheduled to arrive, 19 until I needed to open the doors. Mary would be knocking on the door in 11, and the manager would waltz in sometime after the early rush. The remaining time we had alone together, in clean air and serenity, was slowly melting away. I rubbed a damp rag along the countertops, my fingertips following the subtle lines of woodgrain that traced its surface, my hands working the dampened flesh as I slowly moved down its spine. Massaging its tan flesh as I lingered, tenderly, within this fleeting moment of silence. The space between us, silent except for my breath, and the heartbeat of the space beating beneath its floorboards. I ran the cloth under the sink, after I had covered every inch of its body, squeezing out the excess water, when I heard the fateful rapping against the glass door. Not having time to wipe away the water dripping down my hand, I opened the door, wet and out of breath, ‘Mary, back again, so good to see you.’

Shortly after, the early rush flooded in, and heavy footsteps from a wave of customers echoed throughout the space. A pattern of blurred faces making their way through the cafe with the same routine—arrive, order, eat, leave, arrive, order, eat, leave—I smiled at each one, singing, ‘good morning,’ as the floors croaked in displeasure and the fridge hummed with complaint. But to no avail, the air was thick with their presence, as the building’s cries were shunned into silence by the mindless conversations of outsiders. Their invasion funded by loose change and stamp cards. All in thirst for something, bitter and dark, they drank her dry—grind the beans, press down the grounds, twist, and pull the shot—the lifeblood of the building drained to fuel the system they relied upon. Draining the heart that beat alive within the walls. Vampires with no regard for the body they were defacing; ignoring the shrieks of agony that slice my ears as they scrape chairs along the hardwood floor. Laughing as silverware clatters to the ground around them. Ignoring me, kneeling on bruised knees to clean up the damage they inflicted.

The squeak of the door shrieked continuously as the day progressed. Conversations layered over conversations, Spotify’s chill-vibes playlist blasting through the speakers, the repetitive hiss and hum pattern emanating from the coffee machine—grind the beans, press down the grounds, twist, and pull the shot—the beep of timers and the piercing tone of an Uber-Eats order all echoed repeatedly through the space. The regular with the shrieking laugh sending blades of noise through the air at every unfunny joke until it was almost unbreathable. While a young boy sat determined to squish his leftover food together into a ball of cancerous mush to clog the pipes that flowed within the walls. They were an invasive species, piling into the space. Their nightmarish symphony of noise, building to fill every inch of this holy space with their unwarranted presence until the last breath of air was choked dry. Sound waves ricocheted off walls, reverberating continuously within the space to weave an inescapable spiderweb of noise strung between the counter and the service window. Each ding of the chef’s bell, each sloppy eater, each squeak and squeal of their presence, added another layer to the inescapable web that held me here for the next eight hours. Each tendril of sound, wrapping itself around me, suffocating me, covering everything except, cruelly, my ears.

The features you’ve been missing are waiting for you. With Spotify Premium unlock ad free music and…

No one ever noticed the ad that echoed through the speakers after every fifth song—grind the beans, press down the grounds, twist, and pull the shot—a month ago, it appeared after every sixth song. But, until a customer complained, however, ‘nothing needs to change.’ And nothing ever would. The manager knew just as well as I that they were deaf, that they were immune to the sound of their cruelty, unaffected by the tormented air they produced. Why would they say anything? They loved to watch her torture me. Dinner and a show. Watch as the sound of the ad cuts into me during your lunch, see firsthand the cavernous scars buried somewhere deep in my soul. I now knew this ad as intimately as the beating of my heart, the same way a newborn can recognise its mother’s voice as soon as it enters the world. It seemed unfair to compare her to them, to compare the devil herself to an unending army of vampires. Who could cause more pain, a steady beat of papercuts, or to face them all at once? What if the papercut demanded a low-fat latte? What if the devil kept you alive and conscious as she sliced you from ear to ear?

…unlimited skips on any device, plus download your music and listen offline. Even search and play exactly what you’re looking for on demand!…

Her voice warped itself into a picture behind my eyelids. So vivid, that no matter how tightly I closed them, all I could see was her. The robotic American accent in which she spoke twisted itself into my worst nightmare right in front of my eyes. An evil presence hiding behind my eyelids. A cruel punishment, I couldn’t fight; it was necessary in a way, as long as I was the subject of her blades, the room would remain unharmed, untouched. Adopting the role of a teacher, throwing my body in front of a room of students, shielding them from the bullets, I would keep this safe space sacred—grind the beans, press down the grounds, twist, and pull the shot. Behind my eyes, I could see her with every blink. An oversized smile plastered across her cheeks, eyes frozen straight ahead as if pulled from a photograph, smiling eerily back at me. Her Botox-filled cheeks, preventing her expression from shifting as she spoke, each word forced to slice its way between each inhumanly white tooth on its way to penetrate my eardrums. Her soulless eyes, unblinking and oversaturated, watched my pain with each blink. A soulless enjoyment on her face, smiling, her cheeks pulled upward as if pinned from ear to ear, singing the same autotuned monologue back at me, as something cold dripped onto my shoulder. The ad now played after every fourth song.

…A world of premium is waiting, come back to a better way of listening, tap the banner to learn more!

Each iteration of this jingle called her closer. The image growing stronger behind my eyes, remaining longer after the ads. If three chants were all it took to summon Bloody Mary, I knew I didn’t have long until she was here permanently, until she was all I could see. There was no escaping her anymore. I was desperate, desperate to pile tables behind the door. To flick the latch, to board up the counter, to keep her out. The animal part of my soul demanded action, to protect my child, my home, to protect myself. The human part knew it was helpless. I had five hours left of my shift, I couldn’t leave—grind the beans, press down the grounds, twist, and pull the shot—the ad now played after every third song. Grind the beans, press down the grounds—

The features you’ve been missing are waiting for you…

Pink acrylic nails scraped gashes in the door handle as it turned With Spotify Premium unlock the clacking of her boots sent shockwaves across the floor with every stride add free music. Each step tapping its way up my spine like a chisel cracking each vertebra, one by one, until all I could do, paralysed, was listen. No matter how much I blinked, stared, or crossed my eyes, her image never faltered. She beelined to me as soon as she entered. She was here. I knew the voice before she began to speak: ‘unlimited skips on any device, plus download your music and listen offline.’ Stating her order with no please, no thank you, just a sickly-sweet smile of sugar-cube teeth I hoped would rot out her mouth so she wouldn’t dare open it again. So she would be too ashamed to let any more of that foul sound escape from the shallow hole within her.

As she fished through her bag, I mounted the counter, sending jars of gingerbread men and protein balls flying across the room. Aside from the sound of glass shattering and the repetitive tang of the jar lids bouncing along the floor, the room was silent. Waiting, an echo of the peace of the morning. My hand was around her throat before she could scream, stifling her breath in my grasp, holding it shut like the untied lips of an inflated balloon, desperate to flap under the pressure. But my fingers held firm around her throat, callused hands grinding against the flesh of her neck, pressing hard to keep the sputtering puddle of sound trapped inside.

Grind the beans, press down the grounds,

One hand pressed hard around her neck, while the other pulled her jaw open, reaching toward that little pink ball of flesh suspended at the top of her throat. Staring at it, for just a moment, I expected it to beat, the heart of the voice alive, begging for mercy, begging to keep being. But it hung still, stagnant. My fingers reached toward it, to the source of it all, trapping it delicately between my thumb and index finger—holding it, vulnerable in my hand, for just a second—until I pressed, twisting it between my fingers. And the balloon popped, releasing the blood and mutilated tissue trapped inside, sending its warmth trickling down my fingers.

press down the grounds, twist,

I sat, breathlessly in the silence, the little droplets sliding down my hand, deeper into her throat, leading the way, urging me, begging me, to force my hand deeper. I released my grip around her neck, just enough to make room for my other hand, not risking the chance for a sound to escape, and reached in, until the room filled with the sound of wet flesh gurgling in on itself. The slop of her insides grinding against my hand with every struggling breath, until I reached it, my fingertips pressing against something cool and metallic. A little robotic voice box buried deep in her lungs. Twisting my arm to pry it free, I pulled it out.

twist, and pull the shot,

One of those speakers, used in dollar-store birthday cards that sing the same message over and over, sat in my palm, silver and delicate with little wires looping around each other to form a shining web of noise. Without a second thought, I crushed it. Sending a clatter of little metallic crumbs sprinkling down against the hardwood in place of her final words.

A calmness breezed through the space, the hum from the fridge fell silent, and the building ceased to creak. The sound of sirens and the scream of a crying baby were locked outside, unable to reach me, within the walls of this long-awaited silence. The register didn’t make a sound as I tapped my nail against the screen, waking it up so I could take the order of the elderly woman standing aimlessly behind the counter. Without a word, she grabbed her bag and rushed out the door, leaving behind a tissue that fell from her bag in her haste. I needed to remember to pick that up when I closed. I smiled at the empty space she left in front of the counter, ‘Next waiting?’

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Chloe Robinson (she/her) is a Melbourne-based writer, editor, and artist born and raised in Bunurong and Wadawurrung country. She is currently studying a Master of Writing & Publishing at RMIT University after completing her Bachelor in English Literature from the University of Melbourne. Her written work can be found in publications such as Mascara Literary Review and Hindsight, while her paintings and digital artworks can be found scattered around Victoria.

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