Docile

by K. M. Szpara

  Dutch’s words hover between us like an invisible barrier. Ages seven through twelve. When I was a kid and Dutch was one of three people who played with me, regularly. I knew on some level that he was on Dociline at the time, but also didn’t. We were kids and, surprise, my parents didn’t teach me to pay attention. Even now, I remember them fondly. Those years are a gaping black hole in his life.

  “You were a child, so I can’t blame you for not comprehending that Jess and I were incapable of refusing to play with you. But, for fuck’s sake, Alex, you’re an adult, now.”

  He looks directly at me and I don’t dare avoid him.

  “Jess and I worked our asses off at the lab to pay for college and graduate school and we still ended up with debt. Luckily, once you had your degree, you were handed the highest-paying job in the company and brought us along with you.”

  “Because you deserved it,” I say.

  “Of course we did, but that’s beside the fucking point. Lots of people deserve the job your parents handed to you. People as qualified, who work as hard as or harder than you, Alex, and have no chance of achieving your success. I’m grateful for the opportunities our friendship’s provided, don’t get me wrong. But we do not have the same worldview.”

  “You’ve always seemed content. You love your life, the parties, the work—at times it seemed even more than I did. If I’d known you were unhappy…” I don’t have a right to feel hurt, but I do. “You could’ve told me.”

  Dutch laughs to himself. “Could I have? You can only barely understand now because, for the first time in your life, you can’t fix something by throwing money at it.”

  I look down at my laceless shoes, ashamed. “I’ve only ever tried to help.”

  “I know and you’re still my friend, but you have a lot of work to do. Both out there”—Dutch gestures toward the city, then touches his chest—“and in here. This trial is a big deal. If you want to help, if you actually consider yourself my friend and Elisha’s partner, then listen to my advice. Play along with your attorneys and get out of here. Be quiet. Trust that we have everyone’s best interests at heart.”

  “I trust you,” is all I say, afraid that more will get me in trouble. I don’t want Dutch to hurt, don’t want him or Jess upset with me, don’t know if I even deserve them, anymore. Don’t deserve Elisha. He’s right. I should focus on getting out of here rather than throwing tantrums. Being selfish.

  “Okay. Good.” Dutch pauses, glances at his watch, and rests his hand on my shoulder. “I have to go. Please don’t do anything stupid.” With that, he leaves.

  I breathe the humid summer air deep into my lungs and relax against the bench. Trust Dutch. Trust Elisha. Trust a group of people who hate me and my family and everything we stand for. I have to try.

  53

  ELISHA

  I wait in one of the empty offices, for our defense expert to arrive. A psychologist, Verónica told me. Someone we hired to examine me and provide a report. I can’t help but wonder whether the psychologist has also seen Alex, and how he’s doing. I wish someone would tell me where he is and when I can see him, again.

  A knock on the open door startles me. I shift on the wooden chair, reminding myself of the bruises Onyx gave me, yesterday. They still hurt. I like them more than I thought I would, even more because no one has to know, unless I tell them.

  “Elisha Wilder?” A tall Black man with graying hair pokes his head into the room.

  “Yes.” He’s a doctor and I’m no one. A debtor. A Docile. Not either, anymore, even though I don’t feel like myself free of those words. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to stand. I rise enough to shake his hand when he approaches the table.

  “I’m Dr. Gerald O’Connor. You can call me Gerald.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, returning to my seat.

  “You as well. Do you mind?” He gestures to the chair opposite mine.

  “No.”

  “Do you know why you’re here?” he asks, while removing a tablet from his briefcase.

  “Yes,” I say, relieved to be able to answer at least one of his questions correctly.

  He retrieves a stylus, taps and slides it a few times over his tablet, before resting. His attention is on me, now. “Why don’t you tell me—in your own words.”

  “You’re going to ask me questions to see how I’m doing.” I can do this. I can answer questions. I don’t even have to ask any of my own. This is easy.

  “I am. Your attorneys hired me to perform a psychological evaluation.”

  I want to ask if he’s talked to Alex, too. “Have…” There are no rules. Ask.

  “I’m sorry?” He pushes the side of his ear forward.

  Nothing came out. I wasn’t confident. I can do better. “Have you spoken with Alex?”

  His forehead scrunches up. “I’m sorry?”

  “Are you examining Alex, too?”

  “Oh, Elisha, I’m only examining you. The plaintiffs will hire their own expert to examine Alex, if they want. You do know you’re opposing parties in this lawsuit, yes?”

  “I do, sorry.” My face burns with embarrassment. I shove my hands between my knees. I’m wearing colorful slacks today, a button-down shirt, and a jacket. A tie with a gold clip. Suspenders. The compression feels like armor.

  “Are you concerned about Alex?”

  “Yes. Only because I haven’t seen or heard from him for a while and I miss him.”

  “You miss the person who’s suing you.”

  “Alex isn’t really suing me. His dad is. Alex loves me.”

  “And do you love him?” Gerald looks at me over the golden metal frames of his glasses.

  “Yes?” I say, more like a question than I mean to. My breath catches, like there’s a “but.” Gerald tilts his head as if he is also expecting more. “But no one believes me. I’m not even sure Alex does, to be honest.” I dig my fingernails into the heels of my hands, under the table. “Is this the kind of stuff I’m supposed to tell you? I’m sorry. I don’t usually talk this much. I’m usually better behaved.”

  “You’re perfectly fine, Elisha. Would you mind telling me why people—Alex, even—say you can’t love him?”

  I bring my hands onto the table and clasp them, so I won’t hurt myself in front of him. I know the answer to this question. “Because I was his Docile.”

  “But you refused Dociline.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you were fully aware of everything happening to you. Unlike other Dociles, you were capable of getting to know Alex. Perhaps, even, of falling in love?”

  I know this one, too. Alex’s words burned themselves into my brain. Into my heart.

  Because you’re not you, anymore. You’re not Elisha Whatever-Your-Surname-Was. You’re just Elisha, my Docile. A drone.

  Do you really believe you have any free will left? Prove me wrong. Show me there’s a sliver of a human being left in there.

  Every second you’re with me, I hurt you more—change you more. You become less of yourself. That’s why you can’t be with me.

  “But I can’t not be with you.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “Elisha?” Gerald leans his elbows on the table. “What were you saying?”

  I struggle to lift my eyes. “I can’t love him because I’m not me. At least, that’s what people tell me. I don’t know who else I’m supposed to be. I’m still me, just different. People change, all the time.”

  “That they do. Can you describe to me, in your own words, how you’ve changed since meeting Alex Bishop?” Gerald writes something on his tablet, then relaxes back in his chair and folds his hands in the same position as mine.

  This sounds like a question I can get wrong, so I look for the right answer. “I’ve learned a lot,” I start. “Alex paid for me to see tutors in subjects I’d never even heard of. For athletics and arts.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Um.” Everyone else seems to think
I’ve changed. What’s different about me, and what’s wrong with being different? “I dress nicer.”

  “Quite fashionable. Did you pick that out, yourself?”

  I bite my lip. “Yes, but it took me a long time. Hours. I think Onyx got frustrated with me. I’m not good at picking out my own clothes, yet.”

  “What does that mean? Did you not pick out your own clothes when you lived with Alex?”

  “No.” I huff a laugh. “Alex did. He knows what he likes.”

  “And was that okay with you? Did you like having your outfit decided for you, every day?”

  “Oh yes. It’s a huge relief.” I’m able to relax my hands, stretching my fingers as I think about the clothes laid out on the bed.

  “What else did Alex decide for you?”

  I shrug. “Everything. How I styled my hair, where I stood or sat, whether I spoke and what I said, who touched me, where I slept, who I slept with.”

  “So, it would be safe to say that Alex told you what to do.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you listened?”

  “Of course.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  “Good. I liked making Alex happy.”

  “Was there ever a time, for example, when you first met Alex, that you didn’t like making him happy?”

  The question stumps me. Not because I don’t understand, but because I don’t remember. My early days with Alex are a blur. In my head, I run through the times Alex punished me. I know I disobeyed, and I try to remember whether it was on purpose.

  “He didn’t believe me when I told him Dociline hurt my mother. I didn’t like that, because I was answering his question honestly and he told me I was lying. I was trying to follow his rules and he didn’t believe me.” The anger of writing a hundred lines overwhelms me. My cuff chained to a desk in the Silo, surrounded by thousands of Dociles while I wrote how I will control my attitude. How I will not lie to Alex. How, afterwards, he took me to bed and made me call myself his good boy. The shame burns across my cheeks, all over again. I look away, so Gerald won’t see.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your mother. You can tell me about her, if you’d like, Elisha. I’ll believe you.”

  “Thank you, but I’d rather not.” I’m surprised how easy it is to say no. How right it feels.

  We’re silent, for a moment. Gerald out of respect, I think.

  “I don’t think I liked him, at first,” I say, looking past Gerald. It’s easier if I don’t look at him. “But he was so good to me. He cared, like no one else did. I know it sounds stupid—everyone tells me it is—but he cared more about me the longer we were together. When I was sad, he spent time with me. Asked me about my feelings. Laid with me or gave me pleasure. Made me forget.”

  “He sounds like a good Patron.”

  “He was.”

  “What changed when he amended your contract? When he took you back to the farm.”

  I feel the hollowed pit in my chest. The place where Alex scooped my heart out and left me empty. “It hurt.”

  “The records I received show you attempted suicide.”

  He knows. Why is he even asking, when he’s read about me at my worst? “I didn’t listen.”

  “Didn’t listen to what?”

  “Alex. I heard his voice. He told me to stay awake. But I fell asleep. I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer.” A sob hits me like a wave. I gasp, shudder. Close my eyes. “Back on the farm, no one wanted me anymore. Not Alex or Dad, and I wasn’t allowed to see Abby. Even Nora told me to go. I was exhausted. I wanted to disappear. Thought it might be easier for my family. That it would stop the hurt.”

  “Have you ever felt like you wanted to disappear, since then, or only that once?”

  “I think about it sometimes, but I don’t want to leave if there’s a chance I’ll be with Alex. He didn’t want me, then, but he wants me, now. I know he does.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get to see him, again,” Gerald says, before reaching into his briefcase. “Can you do one thing, for me, and then we’re all finished?”

  “Yes.”

  He sets two thick cardboard boxes with clear lids on the table. Inside each, I can see a different pocket square. The one on the left, red with tiny blue bicycles embroidered on it. The right, purple with pastel orange flowers. “Choose one.”

  I look between them. “For what?”

  “For you. You can have one. My treat.”

  “Oh.” This is a test. Gerald is a doctor, and this is a test, and it’s going to be used in court and what if I get it wrong? If Alex were here, he’d know what to do.

  54

  ALEX

  After Dutch leaves, I start to play along. I pass all their tests, pretend to have realized the error of my ways, and act like I’m glad to be suing Elisha. It works. I hate myself, but it works.

  I’m given my suite and shoelaces back. My belt and the right to leave my room for meals. Attorneys arrive, not long after, to prepare me for my deposition. The older, a partner named Reginald Moore, who doesn’t tell me to call him Reg or Reggie. He wears a black suit, matching oxfords, and a jade-green tie. His associate, Gabriela Hemsworth, wears a charcoal-gray skirt suit. Serious, professional clothes, both of them. I’m underdressed and embarrassed, but act polite and accommodating. This is another test. Hopefully, if I’m a good witness, I’ll be allowed to leave.

  I almost feel like my old self when we sit down, together. Ellicott Hart lets me into the conference room like someone who can be trusted not to throw a chair out the window and jump. Like someone who doesn’t need to be controlled.

  When they leave, I stand with the energy of someone who’s also going home, only forgetting I’m not once we’re in the foyer and several security persons take a step closer as if I’m going to make a run for it. I watch them go with want building behind my sternum. To go home. To my apartment the way it was: soft lights framing a floor-to-ceiling view of the harbor, scent of roast lamb wafting from the kitchen, taste of an accompanying spicy Syrah, the cool crumple of a down feather comforter as I climb into bed, and Elisha.

  That place doesn’t exist anymore. I destroyed it.

  Tonight, while I try to fall asleep, my mind replays childhood memories of Dutch and Jess. Guilt colors the image of three kids chasing one another around the Silo. Of playing scientist, with beakers and goggles, baking soda and vinegar. Food coloring—only until we stained my dad’s desk.

  Dutch doesn’t remember this.

  I’m unsure whether I ever fall asleep. Whether they’re memories or nightmares that keep my brain on edge, through the night.

  * * *

  My attorneys—though it feels wrong describing them as representing my interests—schedule my deposition at their downtown office. I should look pitiful, not deranged, they explained. Wounded, Reginald suggested. Not a difficult look for me to pull off.

  Each of my attorneys pulls a tablet from their briefcase, while I sit awkwardly between them. Nothing in my hands while they scroll through documents. Gabriela prints one wirelessly, a small stack of papers materializing on the conference room table. The firm must have a vault like mine and Bishop Labs’. I feel ashamed for missing the luxury of being able to conjure papers or jewelry, like the halo I made for Elisha’s angel costume. Feel ashamed for remembering how beautiful he looked and for missing him like that.

  When the conference room door opens, and the defense attorney enters, my nerves begin to tremble beneath my skin. A court reporter slips in, while all the attorneys shake hands and discuss logistics, situating herself at the head of the long oak table.

  Then, I see Elisha. He’s scanning the room, nervously. Smoothing down a black floral tie—did he pick that out himself? It looks stunning against his white shirt and tweed jacket. When our eyes meet, I realize I’ve been staring. Am I allowed to shake his hand, like the attorneys did? I don’t think so. My lips parts with words unspoken, kisses withheld. Before I can make a decision, an arm reaches out and
steers Elisha into a chair.

  “Would you like something to drink, Alex?” Gabriela snags my attention.

  “Water, thanks,” I say, my eyes flickering back toward Elisha.

  She sets a cold glass down on a coaster, in front of me, and finally I have something to do with my hands. I take a sip, nearly sloshing it onto the table.

  Get it together, I think in Dutch’s voice. I wish he were here. He always knows exactly how to behave in public. His advice earned my privileges back, at Ellicott Hart. Hopefully, it’ll earn me a ticket out of there, altogether. I’m sure a review will get back to my father if I nail this deposition—or if I fuck up it up. I can’t go back.

  “Ready to get started, Verónica?” Reginald asks, clicking the top of his stylus.

  “Yes.” She sets an actual three-ring binder on the table, along with a legal pad and two pens. Somehow, her supplies look more impressive.

  “I’m ready, too,” says the court reporter. “Go ahead, whenever you’d like.”

  I’m still watching Elisha when his attorney introduces herself to me and asks me if I’ve ever been deposed before. I have to force my eyes on to hers while she explains how this works.

  “It’s okay to say you don’t know the answer, if you don’t. You can ask me to repeat myself, if you don’t understand, and ask for a break, at any time.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can you state your full legal name for the record, and spell it?” she asks.

  I give her my name, and my address. As I answer, I imagine the empty penthouse and feel like a fraud. Technically, I still own it. But if Verónica Vasquez visited, she’d find cold marble counters, expanses of hardwood, and air absent of piano. I answer her questions about where I grew up, my education and work history, all by rote. I almost forget she’s cross-examining me, until she asks when and where I met Elisha. At the sound of his name, he looks up at me.