Dry Erase Board Notes: January 31, 2017

You come into work one morning and the dry erase board on your desk has a note on it that you didn’t write. You assume it’s a coworker friend so, just to amuse yourself, you respond to the note on the board with your own note. The next morning you come in and there’s another response, only this time, the response isn’t so friendly. What happens next?

Post your response (500 words or fewer) in the comments below.577


Black letters on my whiteboard. They were in bold sans serif. “GIVE ME MY LIFE BACK”. I could tell it wasn’t my handwriting. I was nobody’s supervisor. Who could have put it there? Why would someone write this right there?

“LET US KNOW WHAT’S WRONG.” I wrote in red ink.

I turned around. Kevin was watching me. He was sitting in his dark blue swivel chair with one foot under another leg.

“What’s the matter, Myra?”

“Who’s been writing on my whiteboard?” I said.

He shrugged.

 

The next day, black letters appeared on top of my red-inked note. “I HATE YOU.”

“WHY?” I wrote in black ink. Perhaps red ink was offensive, reminding people of the times they got forcibly corrected by a demanding teacher.

I turned around and saw Kevin staring at the board again.

“What?” I stared back at him.

“Just thought it was funny,” he said. Then he wheeled his swivel chair back into his cubicle.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

But he didn’t budge and continued with his work.

Mrs Hatanaka, my supervisor, came around. “Myra, what’s up with your whiteboard?”

“Who’s been writing messages on it?” I asked. “I wonder who’s dissatisfied with me.”

“You’d better mind your own business,” she said.

I took out my eraser and cleaned the whiteboard. Then I buried myself in my work.

 

During lunch, we all went to a fast food joint. When we returned, more black words appeared on my whiteboard. Bold sans serif.

“I WISH YOU WERE DEAD.”

I turned around and scanned my colleagues. “Who’s writing on my whiteboard?”

“We were all eating with you,” said Kevin. “The only one left in the office is Naomi the toilet janitor. Ask her.”

I peered into the washroom. There she was. “Naomi,” I said.

Naomi turned around. I led her to my whiteboard.

“Who wrote on my whiteboard?” I asked her, pointing at the letters.

“Don’t ask me,” she said, crossing her arms.

“You wrote on my board, didn’t you?”

She ran back into the lavatory. She did not even turn around to see me.

I followed her but lost her. I heard a bang. She had locked herself into one of the compartments.

I said, “The only thing I can help with is listen to you.”

I heard her whimper inside. “Don’t tell lady boss.”

“She withheld your pay?”

No answer. I suddenly remembered that Naomi never told us her last name.

“What’s your last name?” I waited.

“Hatanaka.”

“You’re…?”

“My mum injected something into me and I got pregnant and had to leave my school. I was a top student. She gave me this (expletive) job.”

“That’s horrible.”

 

I went to find Mrs Hatanaka. “May I have a word with you?”

“Sure, why not?” she said.

“Something’s wrong with the janitor.”

Immediately Mrs Hatanaka marched into the washroom.

But Naomi’s body lay on the tiled floor. Blood gushed from a slit on her neck.

Her mother murmured, “Good that no one knows.”

“You think?” I said.