After Closing Hours
It had been a few months since my family moved to Briarwood. Last year of high school, I didn’t bother making friends—yet somehow I ended up with two. My dad also got me a part-time job at the mall, polishing machines and cleaning after everyone left.
The company that ran it, Aurion Group, was everywhere. A few searches told me they funded nearly all the local businesses, controlled most of the jobs. My dad said nothing more than, “Don’t worry, it’ll make our lives better!” He sounded optimistic. I didn’t ask questions.
Tonight marked two weeks on the job. Alone in my section of the building, the emptiness hit differently. The mall stretched bigger than a baseball field. No wonder everyone worked in separate areas. I handled the kids’ entertainment department—easy to memorize, easy to clean. My main task: animatronics.
Dragging them to the back was never simple. The little monsters loved to throw pizza, splash juice, and ruin the main attraction. One animatronic, the oldest one, had completely stopped working. The day shift said a group of kids poured lemonade and Coke inside it, “teaching it a lesson,” they claimed. No one tried to fix it. They just scavenged its parts for the others.
I rolled the four functional animatronics back, my hands pressing against cold metal, joints stiff, staring eyes blank but…watchful. I didn’t lift them—too heavy. Seven feet of machinery, hulking and silent, yet somehow alive in their stillness.
At the back, I placed each on the platform and pressed the red button on the tablet. The lift groaned as it rose, halting four feet above the floor. I grabbed a thick cloth, poured cleaner over it, and began. Squeaks from stiff limbs echoed in the empty room. Pizza sauce and sticky juice clung to metal, stubborn against my effort. Lift, clean, rinse, repeat. Two weeks in, the monotony was crushing.
Afterward, I returned the animatronics to their spots, dragging them back on the rollers one by one. The broken one remained in the storage corner, limply exposing its rusting endoskeleton. Its cracked left eye stared straight ahead. I stared back. Something about it felt…wrong.
I shrugged, pushing the thought away, and tidied the supplies. My shift ended at 12. I glanced back at the broken animatronic. Had it always been looking at the door? Probably just my imagination. I turned off the lights and left. The door clicked, locking automatically behind me.
The mall was silent. The guard post near the exit stood empty; he was usually knocked out by now. I checked the clock—12:05. Time to leave. Walking past him, I got into my car. It was my 18th birthday present, a gift I barely remembered. Years had passed without one. For once, I let myself feel a little gratitude.
At home, Mike sat on the couch, his proud smirk plastered on his face. Outgoing, caring, energetic—the opposite of me. I stared a moment, wondering what he expected. Silence dragged on until I cut through it.
“What?”
His grin widened. “I got promoted—senior manager!”
I forced a small smile. “Good for you, I guess longer hours paid off.”
He chuckled, his gruff voice as rough as I’d expect from a man nearly forty-five.
I walked past the kitchen into the hallway. Two doors on the left, my mom’s bathroom and his room; one on the right, mine. I dropped my bag on the floor, slumping into the chair by my desk. Earphones in, music pulsed softly, the ceiling fan spinning above me, slowly lulling me toward sleep.
This is the only time where I’m truly at peace, but tomorrow is another day and I have no other choice but to endure. I didn’t bother calling him Dad. Not even in my thoughts. The dark of my room didn’t need lies. I sigh as I close my eyes, falling asleep in the darkness of my room.
