Docile

by K. M. Szpara

  I slow to a stop beside the faded red barn. It’s too dark to run anymore, tonight. Maybe tomorrow. If I reach the apartment, Tom might let me in. But would Alex even take me?

  “Excuse me.”

  I jerk upright and search for the voice in the dark.

  “Sorry.” A woman in a cheap pants suit emerges from the barn with a tablet under her arm and a stylus stuck through her ponytail. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was just finishing up work—it’s too dark even with a lantern.” She holds up one of the LED lanterns Empower Maryland gives out to communities who can’t afford utilities.

  When I still don’t respond, she walks closer, shines the light on her rosy cheeks and frazzled hair. “You’re Elisha, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  She nods, knowingly. Does everyone know? I don’t want to deal with their questions and prying.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say so she’ll leave me alone.

  “Okay.” She pulls a small card out of her back pocket and hands it to me. “If you want any help, we’re here Tuesdays and Thursdays for legal and financial planning. On the weekends, tutors stop by the school.”

  “School?” I glance at the card: Verónica Vasquez, Empower Maryland. “Oh.”

  “Yeah, Eugenia—sorry, you probably don’t know her, one of our Directors in the city—allocated some funding for us to repair an old Parks building out here and turn it into a schoolhouse. It’s not accredited or anything, yet. But it’s been good for the community.”

  Eugenia kept her promise. Even though I was useless to her. She seemed angry, at the time.

  “Thanks. I mean…” Verónica will expect me to sound grateful, but I have nothing to offer except exhaustion. “I’m glad,” I say so that Verónica will leave. She does with a wave.

  The last time I pocketed one of these cards, it earned me seventy minutes in confinement. Now there is no consequence. Even that feels wrong—the wait for something to happen, some human response, any response.

  I go into the barn and shut its wide door behind me. There are no animals in here; this one’s reserved for storage and occasional work or gatherings. Along the wall rest bags of seeds and beans and other dried goods stamped with the Empower Maryland logo.

  I rip open a bag of rice, push it over, and spill its contents across the cement floor. I fall to my knees and let the grains push deep into my skin. No clock times me, here. I close my eyes while the pain infects every bone and nerve in my body. Until I remember what it’s like to feel.

  * * *

  Nora hands me a plate when I walk through the door. “You can’t skip meals if you want to keep running like that.”

  I stare at the fluffy, yellow pile of eggs. My stomach gurgles.

  “I thought you always did what you were told.” Nora winks and guides me to a place at the table, then goes back to scrubbing pots. “You’re letting me down, kid.”

  Letting her down. First Dad, then Alex, now Nora. Dylan’s still at the Silo. I’m running out of people I care about—who care about me.

  I eat as quickly as possible. The eggs stick to my mouth when I swallow them. “May I be excused?” I show her the empty plate.

  She sighs and waves me away. “Go on!”

  “Thank you.” I wash my plate, then head back outside. I haven’t been okayed to work, yet, and almost everyone else does, so there’s little to do. Not that I feel like doing much, anyway, without Alex.

  I pull a clean towel off the line and head for the reservoir. A hundred years ago, the EPA told us we weren’t allowed to swim in it. We’re probably still not, but it’s faster and easier rinsing off than trying to bathe regularly.

  I pry off my sweat-soaked clothes, fold them, and set them on a rock. Warm water swallows my legs as I wade in. The cops can arrest me, if they really care. No one ever notices we exist until we owe them money.

  I hold my breath and duck, sealing myself underwater. Down here, I can’t see or hear or smell. But I still ache. When will it go away? When will I learn to live without Alex, like he said I would? I could sink to the bottom and stay there forever. My lungs burn as I surface, gasping for air. Voices drift over the water from the shore.

  “Are these clothes?”

  “They feel weird.”

  “Fucking tight-and-brights.”

  A man snickers. “Probably so some trillionaire can cop an easy feel.”

  They see me before I can swim away, a group of four guys with sweat-stained sleeves rolled up over dirt-stained arms. I know them like I know everyone in our community; we’ve worked together our whole lives. But standing on the shore, they might as well be standing on the surface of another planet. I rub a hand over my smooth, soft skin, under the water. They’re hairy or stubbled, their skin rough, bodies thick and muscled.

  “These yours?” asks one.

  It takes me a minute to remember back past Alex—has it only been six months? Micah, that’s his name. He helps build and fix houses. Helped me and Dad add the second room on to Nora’s house once Mom started spending more time there.

  “Yes,” I say, still treading water.

  Another of the guys holds up the spandex pants and stretches the leg as far as it’ll go. He laughs. “What are you, some kind of trillionaire?”

  Another, “No, man, I heard he’s some trillionaire’s pet.”

  Another, “Think you’re better than the rest of us, huh?” He slingshots my clothes into the water, and stomps them to the bottom. He spits where they sunk, then leaves.

  Micah stops and turns back, letting the other three wander off without him. They don’t seem to notice. I stop moving and let gravity pull me deep. Maybe when I come back up he’ll be gone.

  The water churns and bubbles around me. Arms hook beneath mine and haul me upward. I open my eyes and sputter at the surface. Beside me, Micah wipes the hair from his face and the water from his eyes.

  “It’s okay.” He offers his hand. “I’m not going to hurt you. Come on. Let’s go inside. You shouldn’t be swimming; you…”

  Could drown. Might drown yourself. That’s what he’s thinking. “I can swim.”

  “I know you can.”

  I take Micah’s hand and hold tight while we kick back to shore. Already I feel dread creeping back into my body. He’s right. I can swim, but I can’t be trusted to come back up.

  I fish for my wet clothes, but Micah takes them and wrings them out. His own hang soaked on his body, only his shoes kicked aside on the shore.

  “Here.” He hands mine back before putting his boots back on.

  “Thanks.” The damp material fights my efforts, hanging heavy on my skin.

  “I’ll walk you home.”

  I shake my head so fast, I confuse Micah.

  “I can’t. I’m staying with Nora and she’s helping care for my mom and I can’t tell her what happened.”

  “Okay. You can come back to my place.” He puts his arm around me, taking us the long way so that no one will see.

  Micah lives alone in a one-room house that’s part of a row, built like that to keep the heat in, during winter. When we enter, he sits me on a stool and turns on a small fan to clear the humidity.

  Micah hands me a pair of drawstring shorts and a tee shirt. I stand and strip the wet clothes from my body, dry off with the rough towel. I’m slipping my legs into the holes when Micah turns. Hundreds of people have seen me naked or worse. Nakedness doesn’t mean what it used to and Micah’s eyes don’t linger on me. He walks over dressed in sweat shorts and a tee shirt, from which the hair on his chest pokes out.

  “Here.” He hands me a tall glass filled with dark liquid and a shrinking chunk of ice.

  “Careful,” he says. “It has a bite.”

  Alcohol burns my tongue; fresh mint soothes it. The face I make before taking another sip makes Micah laugh. This time, I’m prepared and welcome the hit of rum. “Thank you.”

  When the glass is half-empty, I rest it on the small table
beside me. Micah sits on his bed: a mattress stacked on two plastic pallets.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “Not really.”

  “Makes sense.” He sets his mug aside, empty. “I was a Docile, too. Didn’t refuse Dociline, so I don’t know exactly what you’re going through, but…” Micah punctuates his sentence with a shrug.

  I gulp down the rest of my tea before the ice can melt and take the glass to the sink.

  “You don’t have to wash that,” Micah says. “Unless you want to.”

  In the basin, where he can’t see, I set the glass down and curl my hands into fists, fighting the urge to wash up after myself.

  Unless you want to.

  What do I want?

  … want to.

  I don’t want anything.

  … you want to.

  Nothing except Alex. To be with him. Make him happy.

  “Elisha?” Micah’s voice is closer.

  My hands won’t stop shaking. They won’t stop. Stop.

  I pick up the glass. It bangs against the metal basin until I press it against the bottom, hold it still, hold myself still.

  “Elisha, it’s okay. You don’t have to wash it,” says Micah. He’s behind me.

  “I don’t have to,” I whisper.

  Micah reaches around and takes the glass from my hand. He sets it dirty on the counter. Alex would never leave a dirty dish out.

  But Alex isn’t here.

  Alex left me.

  The crushing sensation begins in my chest and spreads through my stomach, grips my shoulders, weakens my knees. The room loses its color; the fan whirs louder; the air hums around me.

  He left me.

  I can’t do this.

  I can’t.

  45

  ALEX

  Elisha’s dirty bathwater still sits in the tub. The closet cubby reeks of his piss. The bed—I can’t even look at. I want to burn it to ash, then scatter it across the city.

  I can’t be here. Not where everything reminds me of Elisha or how Javier hurt him. How I broke him.

  “Call Jess.” I close my eyes as a soft ring fills the house.

  “Hey, Alex, what’s up?”

  “I, uh, I need…” I need Elisha. He’s not here, anymore. That’s over. He’s better off, now. I need to move on. “Can I crash at your place for a few nights?”

  “Yeah, sure. You bringing Elisha?”

  “No.”

  “You sure he’ll remember to feed himself, if you’re not there?” She laughs.

  Numbness envelops me.

  “Alex?” Jess clears her throat. “Are you okay?”

  “No.”

  “I’m coming over.”

  “Don’t. I’ll be there soon. End call.”

  And I’m alone, again. The house is silent without Elisha. No shuffling of bare feet on hardwood, tinkling of the piano, scribble of a pen over paper. Not even the idle tapping of his foot or the scrape of his teeth while he bites a stylus, studying.

  I walk through my bedroom, slowly. Touch the soft cotton bedspread, sleek polished table. Elisha’s notebook still rests open to five hundred iterations of I will not be rude to guests. I flip back through the pages. Through dozens of punishments and addendums to the rules he copied down to memorize. Notes about how I like my coffee and favorite wines. Habits I dislike. I stop on a page where he wrote: Alex’s opinion is the ONLY one that matters. Two underlines emphasize the point.

  As I continue toward the front, a wallet-sized photograph slips out. In it, a young boy stands between his mother and father. A baby stares with curiosity toward the camera. Fourth Right: Dociles are allowed one personal item. Doesn’t matter for most—they don’t remember the items once they inject.

  I tuck the photograph back inside and close the notebook. Walk downstairs, through the living room, and past the piano. Stop beside the kitchen. I reach into the cabinet above the refrigerator and retrieve the bag of uncooked rice and metal tray Elisha uses for punishments. It clangs against the marble floor. The grains scatter across its surface like raindrops as I pour them out—not too many. Enough so that when I take off my pants and drop to my knees, I feel each one where it burrows into my skin.

  I close my eyes while the pain latches on to my nerves and climbs up my thighs. Pain I inflicted on Elisha for asking a question or touching his own hair without permission. No cuff or timer holds me accountable. No amount of time will ever atone for what I’ve done to him, but I remain until tears break free of my lashes and stream down my cheeks. Until the ache in my body mirrors the ache in my heart.

  * * *

  I ride the elevator down with only my phone and wallet. With dried eyes and dimpled knees. The notebook tucked under my arm.

  Tom looks up from his desk. “Can I help you with anything, Dr. Bishop?”

  “Yes, actually. You may want to write this down.”

  “Yes, sir.” His stylus hovers over the front desk, ready.

  “I need Maintenance to deep clean the upstairs bathroom—everything, with bleach where it’s safe. I’d like the bed linens—pillows, pillowcases, sheets, and comforter—thrown into the incinerator.”

  “Yes, sir.” He writes almost as fast as I speak.

  “The mattress, I realize, is used, so I won’t be offended if you decline, but you’re welcome to it. There’s easily a decade left on it. Better be; I paid a hundred thousand dollars for it.”

  Tom looks up, mouth slightly agape.

  “The frame is like new. You’re welcome to that as well. Hire movers to take them—to the dump, if you don’t want them. Either way, send me the invoice.”

  “Dr. Bishop, that’s awfully generous, but I can’t—”

  “The nightstand, as well. Once the furniture is out, I’d like that space deep cleaned, including the closet. There is a small cubby space in the floor that requires particular attention.”

  “Yes, sir. Anything else?”

  I picture the still, tepid water in the tub. Shards of the wall monitor I broke scattered on my bedroom floor. Metal tray with its scattered rice, grains littering the floor where I picked them out, unable to make it to the tub. I do not want anything here.

  “You know what, get rid of any furniture that isn’t attached. Everything: lamps, rugs, tables, curtains. Keep whatever you’d like. Sell it. I don’t care. I don’t want it.”

  “Dr. Bishop.” Tom sets down his stylus.

  “And this.” I slap Elisha’s notebook down on the desk. “Destroy this first. Incinerate it.”

  Tom rests his hand on the leather cover, then looks at me with concern in his eyes. “It’s none of my business, so I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you okay?”

  “We’ll see,” I say. “Give me a few days.”

  * * *

  “Whoa, look at you.” Jess holds the door open.

  I don’t linger on the threshold, instead making my way into her modest kitchen. The door clicks shut behind me. Jess jogs to keep up while I sit on a lime-green chair.

  “So.” She stands beside me. “Did you want to talk over a cup of tea, or…” She squints. “Whiskey?”

  I set my sunglasses on the sturdy, wooden table and massage my irritated eyes.

  “Or we could just sit here and pretend you haven’t been crying.”

  “Tea sounds good. I can make my own.” I rise, but Jess pushes me back down.

  “You know you’re wearing a hoodie, right?”

  I glance down at the clothes I bought on the way over: light denim jeans, salmon tee shirt, baby-blue sweatshirt. The hood swallows my head like a cave. I could pull the drawstring tight and disappear inside.

  “I needed something new.”

  “Well, you got it.” She wanders over to the stove, puts the kettle on, and readies two bags of green and purple tea.

  “So, what’s the occasion?” She takes the flamingo-pink chair, beside me. None of the furniture matches, here, and yet the house is a whole.

 
; “I took Elisha home.”

  “Didn’t he just visit?”

  “For good. Contract fulfilled. Debts paid.”

  She doesn’t respond. My phone vibrates against the table. Mariah. I shut it off and flip the display over.

  Jess clutches the tiny silver sugar spoon in two hands. “Why?”

  “Why do you think?”

  The kettle whistles. Jess hurries out of her seat to tend to the tea. She returns a minute later, setting a yellow teacup in front of me. My fingers are too big for the dainty handle, so I take the whole cup in my hand. The hot water tests my nerves through the thin porcelain.

  I stare at the bottom of my cup through the swirl of steeping tea. “Please say something.”

  “No,” she says, drawing my attention. “I want you to say it.”

  I inhale the lavender and spearmint steam rising from my mug, hoping it will clear my head, or at least calm me. I should take something, but then I’d feel better, and that’s almost like forgetting. I have to say it. Sooner or later, I will have to say it.

  “I love Elisha.” I let the words hang in the air. “Or I’m in love with him—well…”

  “Well?” When I can’t answer, Jess reaches across the table and rubs her hand over the arm of my new sweatshirt. Anyone else would chastise me.

  “I would be if he was capable of loving me in return. It’s kind of a two-way thing, being in love with someone, isn’t it? But he’s not really him, anymore. He’s whatever I made him.”

  She squeezes my arm.

  “When did you figure it out?” she asks like she realized long ago. Javier did in one night. Guess I was the last to admit it.

  “Too late.” I close my eyes. Dylan’s words ring through my brain: If I refuse, I won’t end up like him, will I? Then Elisha’s. “He asked me if something was wrong with him, and I told him everyone changes. Not like that, though. He’s so far gone he doesn’t even know it.”

  Her spoon chimes against the teacup as she stirs it. “What are you going to do?”