Do Not

By Gabrielle Barnett 

Gabrielle Barnett is an undergraduate Psychology and Art major studying to become an art therapist. She enjoys art in all mediums and especially sculpture of clay, cardboard, and soft materials. Her work focuses on differing perceptions of the world around her and communicates stories of passion and perspective. On campus, she is an editor for the Marlin Chronicle, co-Editor in Chief of the second edition of the Batten Honors College Academic journal, and involved with several other clubs. In her free time, she enjoys doing side-quests with her friends and creative writing.

"DO NOT TOUCH THE SWORD"

Right.

Easy.

Dora had started this job about two days ago. It was an easy gig, and a fun one. She had her own cubicle, computer, and water bottle. There was a kitchen she could use and nice bathrooms. The tasks were easy and clear, nothing she couldn't handle without a good audiobook. It was practically the perfect job, except for the sword.

During orientation, her boss had kind of glanced over it.

"Oh, and just ignore this," she'd said, waving in the direction of the dull gold sword resting on a white pedestal, propped up by iron supports.

Dora, who'd been trying to make a good impression, hadn't asked. She'd just nodded at the time, something she regretted now.

It wasn't like she could escape, avoid, or ignore the sword. It was in the middle of the walk to the kitchen. The only other way to get to the kitchen was to go to the back of the room, walk around to the edges, and basically  take too much time and look crazy. So, she went the easy way and stared at the sword. Even if she avoided it, she'd still see it while she was in the kitchen, the downside of an open floor plan.

She also couldn't stop thinking about the sword, even while she was working. Why was there a sword in the middle of an office? It didn't match the decor or the vibes or anything like that. And no one else seemed to have any thoughts on it whatsoever. It was like it was invisible to everybody but her.

She formatted the row of cells she'd just inputted, thoughts about the sword gnawing at the back of her mind. Her stomach growled again, unhappy that she was pushing lunch back. She needed food. It was getting close to 2p.m., and while other people could get by without eating, she was not one of those people.

She sighed, saved her changes, and stood up.

Her coworker, who started a few weeks before her, smiled in recognition when she walked into the kitchen.

"How's the data collection going?" he asks. Is his name Matthew or Matthias? Maybe Matthew…

"Boring," she chuckles. "But quick, at least."

Maybe Matthew laughs in agreement, the microwave beeping cheerfully.

"Don't go too quick, the only thing waiting for us is more data," he says, pulling out a container of steaming spaghetti.

She laughs and says, "Well, hey, that's the job."

"As long as it pays the bills," he agrees with another wide smile that shows off all of his white teeth. It's almost unsettling. "See you later."

When he walks by the swords, he gives no indication that he sees it. He walks by it like it's a plant or some other type of normal decoration. Not an effing sword in the middle of the office.

"DO NOT TOUCH THE SWORD", the sign intones at her. It doesn't have eyes, because it's a bunch of bold letters printed on a sheet of regular size paper, but if it did, it would probably be glaring at her.

She rolls her eyes and pulls out her lunchbag from the fridge.

The next week slides by more or less like this. Dorian Gray acts a fool in her ears. Maybe Matthew/Possibly Matthias continues to smile with nearly all of his teeth, even on the day when there's something green stuck between two that she doesn't point out. Cell A3 becomes cell AA33. Her cubicle neighbor introduces themself and Dora immediately forgets their name and asks for it three separate times before finally writing a note to herself that simply said "cubicle neighbor = sid." She finds a drink that tastes good enough at the corporate café, and it becomes her own morning ritual. The sword watches her pull out lunch after lunch from the fridge. A week turns into two, then a month, then a few, and still, she maintains her distance. Today, however, it's hot in the office and she's bored of the cells and cubicles, and so she's just standing in the kitchen, where it's at least a bit cooler, and the sword is staring back at her.

Again, it doesn't have eyes, but it's like the stones in the hilt are watching her. What's that part called? The crossarms, she thinks, or something similar like that.

They are kind of pretty, in their dull way. They look like they might've been clear, once. Perhaps they are rhinestones or even diamonds. 

In the past few months, she's written her own story for the sword. Perhaps it had belonged to a knight of times long past, who had used the sword to slay the last of the dragons, and that was why it was so dirty. Because nobody dared to clean off the dragon's blood, said as it was to be poisonous. The sword went from hand to hand, essentially unusable for the scars it left, until it was picked up by a wealthy collector who kept it as a family heirloom, until one of their descendants bought this building and had the sword installed here.

Seems plausible enough.

"Dora, are you trying to move the sword with your mind?" A voice says, and she startles, looking over to see Matthias—she'd learned his name subtly during an office party and added that to her discrete green notebook—leaning in to take a bottle of water out of the fridge. His normally pale skin is slightly flushed, and there's sweat staining parts of his polo like he's leaking it. 

"What?" She says nervously. "No, I wasn't—"

"I mean, if it's in your way, just move it. You look like you're trying to establish telepathic communication with it," Matthias jokes, holding the cold water bottle to his forehead, where waves of his sweaty brown hair were stuck to his forehead.

"Well, I wouldn't touch it," she says with a shrug, turning back to the kitchen like there was some reason she'd come over here and not just because the opening of the fridge provided a much needed gust of fresh air.

Matthias laughs, then catches a glimpse of her face.

"Wait, have you not held the sword?"

"No, of course not," she says quickly. She was a rule follower. She belonged here. They definitely weren't firing her over that.

"What? You've been here for months!"

"No, I would never, that's not—I wouldn't—"

"Everybody touches the sword," he says. "You don't have a picture with it?"

Now she's starting to feel guilty, although she wasn't really sure for what or why that was her reaction.

"No…?"

"Dude, I took one in my first week here. How have you not done this?"

"It says not to," she says weakly, glancing back at the pedestal.

"So?" Matthias says, fanning himself. "Who cares about that? Nothing's gonna happen, you're just missing out."