“The Debrief”
by Katherine Dempsey
“Before we start, I’m just going to have you read over this consent form and sign at the bottom,” the young woman who greeted the participant at the door said as she slid the pale sheet smoothly across the silver table. Her ID badge, fastened to the upper left corner of her white blouse, was decorated with a headshot and the words “Preconscious Cognition LLC,” leaving her name unknown. The corners of her mauve lips turned up slightly before opening her mouth to say, “Someone will come in to debrief you after you finish the survey.” She swapped the consent form with a small stapled packet, numbered questions on a Likert scale featured in Times New Roman. Without saying another word, she turned on the balls of her feet and walked out the door, leaving the participant alone in the lab under cold fluorescent lights, surrounded by dark grey epoxy walls, the large mirror spanning across the width of the wall in front of the participant being the room’s only character.
Eyebrows clenched together before releasing the creases, the participant’s finger tips grasped the shadow colored pen, ready to get through the questions.
I often expect good things to happen to me
1 2 3 4 5
His pen moves immediately, circling 4.
I believe I make good decisions
1 2 3 4 5
He pauses, the tip of his pen hovering between 4 and 5, before finally enclosing 4 in a neat loop.
I do not think about myself often
1 2 3 4 5
There is no hesitation—another 4.
Each prompt followed the same pattern, a scale from 1 (strongly disagree) to 5 (strongly agree). The questions seemed normal, often featuring similarities to one another, leaving him to question what exactly was being measured. The packet was as thick as a cardboard children’s book; the questions seemed never-ending. The sound of a clock ticking played in his head like a record skipping. His eyes shifted to where the clock should have been, but his gaze landed on an empty wall. He was turning what seemed to be the 10th or 11th page of the packet when he did his first double-take.
I am lying right now
1 2 3 4 5
His breathing hitched as he read the first question on the page, a cold chill suddenly creeping up his neck. The participant didn’t understand what happened, but he knew something in the room was different. The questions began to spiral down a similar path.
I know I am a bad person
1 2 3 4 5
The participant’s mouth felt like a drought, and his body sat still like he was made of shale. Unable to answer the question, he dropped the pen, making a vibrating noise echoing against the walls as the plastic bounced against the metal table.
“I’m done,” he whispered, rolling back in his chair, as if the distance would calm him. “I can’t,” he said, eyes unfocused, the questions blurring into something he no longer wanted to face. “I’m done,” he repeated. He didn’t care how much was left of the packet; he was no longer in a safe space. He stood from the chair, ready to walk out, when a familiar voice halted him.
“Thank you for your participation in this study. Your contribution is greatly appreciated.” The participant looked to the door, but heard no slam or creak. His eyes began scanning the rather blank room before falling on the mirror and noticing something unusual. The image of himself, still sitting at the table, staring back at him, was enough to overload his nervous system, sending waves of anxiety through every inch of his body. “I hope you answered honestly,” his reflection said to him before giving him a warm smile. The participant turned to the door and ran, not looking back.
