In the Wrong Space and Time

I

I STAND BEFORE THE LARGE metal doors leading into Switch Pharmaceuticals, gazing intently into the retina scanner which would allow me entry into the building.

"Scanning... scan complete as of 0832 hours, 21st January 2019." the familiar automated voice of the scanner rings out clearly.

"Doctor Caroline Moira Campbell, twenty-three years old, working in the Research and Manufacturing sectors. Status: Senior Researcher. Access granted: Everywhere. Please proceed." The doors slide open. I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder, and walk in.

My flats make small tapping noises on the marble tiles as I stroll through the brightly-lit corridor leading to the factory wing, in which we make all our drugs.

Leaving my bag in the lockers outside the laboratory, I push the door open and grab a folded, sterilised blue suit, blue medical booties, gloves and a mask. I put them on with practiced ease and proceed to get the routine air shower, before stepping into the clean room.

I don't bother with greetings and ignore my coworkers as they, in turn, either avoid or ignore me. I don't care that they don't like me - they never have. Although that knowledge would be ringing alarm bells in any regular working-class woman's head, I couldn't care less that my coworkers only tolerated me at best. These plebeians aren't worth my time - I'm so much cleverer than those idiots anyway.

What makes today any different, that I should give a second thought to them? All I'm doing in the clean room today is nipping in to check on and collect my newest batch of insulin capsules, and dropping it off at QC. (That is, to say, quality control.) So I keep my head high, but avert my gaze and avoid looking at anyone.

I make my way to the steel tray sitting inconspicuously on the table in the corner, with small red and yellow capsules lying scattered all over the metal surface. I take a seat behind the desk, ready to begin my preliminary check before sending the batch to QC.

After making sure my gloves are skin-tight and clean, I pick up one oblong pill and turn it over in my fingers, checking the red half for any dents or defects, then move on to the yellow half. I shake the pill to determine whether the powder inside is of proportionate amount. It's a good pill, so I drop it into a clean, transparent orange pill bottle. Now, onto the next pill...

I pick up a second pill and bring it up to eye level, ready to inspect it as well. I feel a tap on my shoulder, and I turn around to acknowledge whoever it is. I am met, however, with a cloud of milky-scented, white powder being blown into my face. I squeeze my eyes shut and start to cough, pulling my stifling mask down a little to breathe easier, on account of my asthma. Baby powder, my mind dimly registers as I feel an unpleasant tickle in my nose and throat.

Instinctively, I turn my body away from the source of powder, and sneeze before my hand can stifle it. I open my eyes, and to my utmost horror, I realise that I have deposited a sprinkling of saliva all over my batch of insulin, effectively ruining it all. Shocked disbelief turns into a raging ball of fire within me, but I turn back to a smirking Tyra Johnson with a mask of cool neutrality placed impeccably on my face.

(You see, Dr. Tyra Isolde Johnson is a year older than me. She graduated from university at the top of her class, obviously "destined" for a bright future. It must have pissed her off to know that I graduated from university earlier than she did and got a job at Switch Pharm. at twenty years old. I got promoted to senior researcher before she even received a pay raise.

I mean, that's to be expected - she only graduated at twenty-three. So she hates me and goes out of her way to make my life here miserable, but I don't blame her. She can't help being inferior, I guess. Or maybe - just maybe - it may have been my "I-don't-need-friends" proclamation a year ago, but... let's not talk about that for now.)