Off-Cuts
Sarah Whitechapel was currently struggling to imagine life without her ring finger.
The knuckles of her left hand ached as she drew her fingers into her palm for the thousandth time that morning. She’d been told it helped to visualize, but it was difficult to picture nothing where there’d once been something. It was difficult to feel like she wouldn’t be better off trying not to think about it at all.
A finger wasn’t much as far as this kind of thing went – visible, but not vital, akin to an actress having an eye removed for a leading role. That being said, it would be the most she’d ever given up. There’d been a molar for a college internship, and before that, half the length of her hair for a hostess gig at a restaurant of middling quality when she was seventeen. She only regretted the second one. Her hair, grown to the waist and cut to her chin, had been worth more than the pittance of an hourly wage she’d gotten for it.
Staring at her hand wasn’t helping. Thoroughly repulsed, she dropped it onto the faux leather of her seat and turned her attention distinctly outward. With exception of the receptionist, reigning supreme behind her half-moon desk, there was only one other person in the lobby; a woman, caught somewhere in the liminal space of twenty-five to thirty-nine, non-descript black purse at her feet and manilla folder sitting neatly in her lap. Another applicant, Sarah guessed, and immediately, the stranger’s posture seemed straighter, her clothing more suited to the occasion, her expression so effortlessly pleasant, it cut back to aggressive. She must’ve had more experience than Sarah, too. Her hair was tucked tastefully behind the remaining half of her left ear, and there was a harsh indent in her calf where a portion of the flesh had been carved away. That was a good idea, if a bit crass. A pound of meat would probably be more attractive to someone looking for a butcher than a marketing director.
Sarah watched intently as the other applicant looked from her phone to her purse, then from her purse to the receptionist, immediately catching her eye. The two exchanged an easy smile, and panic flared in some deep, base part of her mind. Could she have been friendlier with the receptionist? Was she supposed to be friendly, or would that make her seem too flippant, too careless? In a way, she’d already forfeited. Seeing the interview through would only help to save face.
The other applicant’s attention shifted once again, onto Sarah. Somewhat involuntarily, a plaster smile spread across her lips, her head bobbing awkwardly in greeting, and then the other applicant was moving closer, closer, until she fell into the seat beside Sarah with a shallow exhale. Her possessions were left thoughtlessly on the other side of the room, and for a moment, Sarah was utterly and truly convinced that she hated this woman more than any other living thing on the face of the planet. The feeling passed quickly.
“Blaine,” the woman said, extending a hand. No last name was provided, which made sense. If they ever met again, it would be after one of them had gotten the position and the other knew who’d robbed them of it.
“Sarah.”
The handshake was passable, unsubstantial in terms of pressure, warmth or length. When they broke apart, Blaine let out a dry laugh. “I know I’m not really supposed to ask, but I can’t help it.” She paused, sighing. “What do you have in mind? For the deduction, I mean.”
Something acidic rose into the back of Sarah’s throat. “I haven’t decided.”
“It’s terrible, isn’t it? I always pick last minute. Hiring agents hate that kind of thing, though.” Irresponsible. Uncommitted. Underserving. “It gets you into trouble. My brother – he agreed to have a kidney deducted, a kidney. Of course, they gave him the job, but he realized he couldn’t pay for the surgery not long after the operation. Had to sell the damn thing just to make ends meet.”
That wouldn’t be a problem. They had a retroactive coverage policy, here. It’d be taken out of the first year of her salary, sure, but that was fine. It wasn’t like an employer, no matter how large the company or how recognizable the name, could afford to pay every new hire’s expenses out of pocket. “How awful.”
She shrugged. “It happens. He’s fine now, but the whole thing looks terrible on his record.”
At least he had a record. The void in Sarah’s resume where her prior occupations should’ve been suddenly felt more all-consuming than it had before. She’d been an idiot to think it wouldn’t be an issue, that her age was anything but another flaw. How she’d convinced herself otherwise was a mystery. Everyone else must’ve seen it. She was the only one pretending she couldn’t.
Not that her competition would fare any better. The woman sitting next to her was too old to be job hunting, too calcified to be expected to adjust to a new position. She was only saved from having to say so aloud by the opening of a door near the receptionist’s desk, the soft voice of a secretary. “Miss Whitechapel?”
The other applicant was immediately forgotten. Sarah was on her feet in a moment and at the secretary’s side in another. She was a pretty girl, her hair pulled back into an immaculate bun, her skirt and blouse both fitted and uncreased. The right side of the latter hung limp over her uneven chest where one breast had been gouged out, but Sarah couldn’t bring herself to nitpick proof of dedication.
She held the door open for Sarah, but stopped her just before the threshold. “I’m so sorry,” she started, sweetly apologetic. “They’ve asked me to make sure you’ve decided on a deduction?”
Sarah made sure her tone was just as saccharine.
“Can you put me down for a kidney?”
About the Author
Miriam Killdeer is an avid writer and proud South Florida local. Their work centers themes of life, death, and all the little complications in-between.