Docile

by K. M. Szpara

  Carol hugs me before I can let go. “You’ll be fine; I know you will.”

  I nod in the crook of her shoulder. “I have the ODR’s contact just in case.”

  “Call me if there are any violations of your rights.” She stands back. “I don’t usually say goodbye.”

  “What’s the point?” I shrug. The driver opens the back door for me. “Most people won’t remember you anyway.”

  She looks like she’s going to cry. I feel like I’m going to throw up. Somehow, I get in the car. The driver closes the door and I immediately start swiping my fingers over the panels on the door. A lock clicks; lights dim. One of these has to— The window rolls down.

  “I’ll remember you, Carol,” I say.

  Her waving figure is cut off as the window rises, not by my doing.

  “Windows up. For your own safety,” the driver says. “And fasten your seat belt.”

  I look at the seat for a belt. Finding nothing, I meet his eyes in the mirror again.

  “Behind you, on the right.”

  It’s exactly where he says. A belt stretches out when I pull, clicking into a metal end on my other side.

  “Thank you,” I say, trying to get comfortable. It’s not hard. The leather warms beneath me, the air around me. The strap is a little annoying, but I don’t dare remove it.

  People rush around outside, swinging briefcases and drinking coffee from paper cups. I’ve never understood why someone would throw away a perfectly good cup after using it once. Everything is disposable here, even people.

  I watch through the window as families wait at crosswalks that look freshly painted in order to reach towering glass buildings on the piers along the harbor. Beside the water, there’s a giant building people call the Power Plant. It’s not a plant, anymore. All the working-class people must’ve been pushed out so the rich could gut it for fun. Restaurant signs are attached to the painted brick—salmon colored, probably to remind folks of the sea—with a giant guitar fixed to the top. It’s not like the ones my father and his friends play, but sleek and shiny, like it might launch into space.

  We stop at several shops and spas before reaching a tall red building that faces the water. Its painted marble is shaped into flourishes and flowers along the doors and windows, not unlike the buildings that surround it. This time, when I get out of the car—still raw from the waxing and plucking and scrubbing—the driver unpacks the bags of clothes and hands them to a doorman. Standing on the sidewalk, I tilt my head back until I’m staring almost into the sun. Beneath the roof, human figurines guard the building’s corners—or they hold it up.

  I want to ask if this is Alex’s house, but I’ve barely spoken a word since leaving Carol behind at the ODR. For all I know, these people will report my behavior, and I don’t know my new Patron well enough to gauge his reaction.

  “Dr. Bishop left this for you.” The doorman hands me a small, sealed envelope, then resumes loading my shopping bags into a trolley.

  I take it and press my finger under its seal. “Thank you.” The paper’s so nice, it takes me a minute to rip the envelope open.

  I read the handwritten script quietly to myself: “‘Take the elevator to the top floor. Stand beside the window and look over the harbor. Do not turn around—wait for me. Alex.’” I fold the thick note between my shaking fingers, hoping there is only one window, and that I don’t suddenly have to pee or need a drink of water, or anything that requires me to turn from the window.

  When I look up from the note, I realize I am alone. The doorman’s gone. I could run. I’m free and undrugged. The only thing that can force me to follow Alex’s instructions is myself.

  I step into the waiting elevator.

  The microchip in my back would be used to locate me the instant I ran. They’d find me. Alex would be unhappy with me, and the rest of my life would begin miserably. He could withhold the monthly stipend—even if it’s pennies to him. That’s what the contract said.

  When I press the button for the highest floor, it lights up and a soothing, electronic voice says, “Welcome, Elisha.”

  I almost reply before telling myself it can’t hear me; it’s a machine. And, yet, it knows my name.

  “Penthouse,” the elevator announces with a ding.

  When I walk forward it’s not with dread but wonder. The entire outside wall is glass. I feel like a god looking out over the city. Ships in the harbor look like toys, floating in a bathtub. I can see right down through the triangular glass of the Aquarium’s rainforest exhibit; I asked Dad to take me so many times as a kid, but even when we all had bikes to travel into the city, the ticket price was too steep.

  My new shoes slip on the polished hardwood floor as I wander closer for a better look. Every step I take forward is another I can’t take back. Don’t turn around. My eyes wander over marble countertops, plush navy furniture, soft light from invisible sources. As soon as I reach that glass, I’m committed to the view until Alex shows up. I close my eyes and breathe deep, clinging to the last few second—minutes, hours?—that are my own.

  But the light scent of vanilla and wood invades my nostrils, reminding me I’m in someone else’s home. And not just four walls to keep out animals and a roof to stop the rain. This is not a shelter; it’s for pleasure. And I’m another decoration, picked out to complement the space.

  I wait. Outside, the sunlight moves across the water.

  The soft ping of the elevator might as well be thunder. I stare even harder at the ant-sized people below, determined not to turn around. Behind me, footsteps echo off the high ceilings.

  Don’t look. I can’t look. I want to look. I have to remind myself to breathe. My heart races faster than a car. Even when the room falls quiet, I know I’m not alone.

  5

  ALEX

  Elisha stares out the window, hands clasped formally behind his back. His skin is still pink from the salon, but the clothes do him justice; they’re colorful, pressed, formfitting. He should be comfortable, and yet he’s so stiff, I imagine he’d tip right over if I prodded.

  I shrug off my coat and open the closet as quietly as possible, like he might run away if I make a noise. I can’t scare him off—he can’t even leave. He’s my responsibility, now. The realization settles into my body like the first shot of alcohol on a night out: warm, invigorating, dangerous. I can do this—want to do this. This is not a punishment; it’s an opportunity.

  Quietly, I close the closet door and roll up my sleeves as I go to join him. Continuing to follow my instructions, he doesn’t turn around. I linger behind him. What do I say, Hope you had a good ride? How was the spa? Good to see you?

  We’re still strangers.

  “What do you think of the view?” I ask, unsure whether small talk is the right choice.

  “It’s beautiful.” The natural timbre of Elisha’s voice throws me off.

  He’s not on Dociline—not until tonight. Maybe that’s why it feels so weird, standing next to him like we’re in a bar and I’m trying to pick him up. After I inject him, it’ll be easier. He’ll be happy simply standing there, waiting for my next instruction. Fulfilled rather than stiff and nervous. It’s making me nervous. I chose a Docile over a husband because the latter requires emotional labor that I don’t have time for and now I’m pulling my weight, anyway.

  Get over it, Alex. It’s just for one night.

  “The inside’s not bad, either,” I say, finally. “Follow me. I’ll show you around.”

  He follows me into the kitchen, where I point out appliances camouflaged into the room’s woods and whites, all clean for this evening’s party. I slide a recessed wine rack out from between the pantry and the refrigerator, grab a bottle of red—don’t even check the label. Elisha watches while I set a wine glass down on the kitchen island.

  Before I know it, I’m asking him, “Do you want one?”

  I set down a second wine glass, not waiting for his response.

  “Um.” He looks around like someone’s going
to catch him drinking on the job. There are no other rules here, besides mine. “Sure, I guess.”

  By the time he’s answered, I’ve already filled both glasses. I down half of mine in one gulp. The lump catches in my throat and I feel it push down my esophagus. Across from me, Elisha brings the rim of the glass to his nose and sniffs it, but not like I would at a restaurant, more like a dog sniffing another dog’s ass. After watching me finish my glass, he puts his own to his lips and sips.

  I pour myself another, store the rest of the bottle in the rack, and push it back into hiding. “You don’t need to know much about the kitchen. I’ve hired a caterer to manage tonight’s party.”

  When he doesn’t ask what kind of party, I go on, anxious to fill the silence. “A birthday party.”

  More silence.

  “It’s my birthday.”

  For the first time, Elisha’s face relaxes. He almost smiles. “Happy birthday.”

  “Thank you.” The wine is already absorbing into my bloodstream and loosening me up, excising my anxiety. I take advantage of it and explain: “After we finish the tour, I’m going to run a few last-minute errands while the caterers set up. I’ll be back in time to introduce you to…” No point in explaining to Elisha who everyone is. He won’t really remember once I inject him. “Everyone.”

  “Okay,” he says. Clearly, that was enough for him.

  Elisha follows me upstairs, silently and slowly, trying not to spill his wine, his glass still almost full. I wait at the top of the steps, looking down on my home, out its floor-to-ceiling windows, and at the younger man whose debt I purchased.

  He glances up at me and smooths back a strand of hair threatening to liberate itself from its new sleek style. His lips are slightly reddened with wine, face slightly flushed. I remember why I picked him and how this won’t be all work. Once he’s dosed up, we will definitely play.

  “This is my bedroom.” I wander in, at ease in my most private space. Though the bed is made and my clothing hung, my personal laptop still rests on the blue-gray down comforter and a rocks glass sits on a coaster on the nightstand. Remnants of last night’s Scotch stain its bottom.

  I glance over my shoulder to see Elisha lingering at the threshold. “You are allowed in,” I say, though he knows that. He eyes the bed with trepidation, standing as far away as he dares.

  “You’ll sleep in here with me.” I walk to the left side of my bed frame and kneel to point out the adjustment I had made. “This is your bed.” When I wave my hand over a sensor, the trundle glides out silently, already fitted with matching bedding. Elisha doesn’t react to our sleeping arrangements, which, I admit, are more intimate than the capsule bed setup Mariah keeps, or the separate rooms Dutch’s Dociles sleep in.

  “The only other rooms, up here, are the bathroom and my office.” I point to both of their doors in turn. “The latter of which is always locked when I am not using it. Do you have any questions?” I ask. He looks nervous, still, though I feel much better with twelve ounces of wine in me. “I’d rather you ask now. I’ll be busy entertaining guests later, and will expect you to handle yourself.”

  Thirty slow seconds pass.

  “Yes,” Elisha says. “What do I do, tonight, exactly? Follow you around? Wait upstairs? Are there any guidelines…”

  I blanch like a schoolboy who’s forgotten his homework. Rules. I should’ve thought up rules. I finish my wine and set it on the nightstand. “Yes.” I can make shit up on the fly. I do this kind of thing all the time for investors and reporters and people who ask me how I’m doing.

  “I’ll put the rules up on the wall for you to study while I’m running errands. Memorize them.” I sit at my small writing table, pull a touch keyboard up on its surface, and begin to type.

  1.  Always answer aloud when people address you, and do so honestly.

  2.  Do not speak unless spoken to.

  3.  Consult me, first, if someone makes a request of you.

  I hesitate, debating whether that is enough, before adding one more.

  4.  If you require my attention for a non-emergency, say, “Excuse me, Alex,” and wait for me to address you. Always speak up in an emergency.

  There. That’ll last the night. Good job, Alex. “If you have further questions about any of the rules, now is the time to ask them.”

  Elisha bites his thumbnail while he rereads the rules.

  “Don’t do that,” I say. “I just had them manicured.”

  He removes his finger from his mouth and forces his hand to his side. “Is there a certain way you want me to stand or sit when I’m not doing anything?”

  Good question. “Yes,” I say before even having thought of the answer. Thank god he won’t remember any of this once he’s on Dociline. This time, I take a cue from Dutch, who treats his two Dociles more like pets than sex toys. “Unless otherwise directed, you are to sit on the floor beside me or stand with your hands clasped either in front of or behind your body. And look at me when we speak to each other.”

  “Okay,” Elisha says, reviewing the rules one last time. “Will I be…” He hesitates, trying to form his question.

  I’m enraptured simply watching him think.

  “Will I be expected to do things at the party?”

  “Like, entertain?”

  “No, like…” He shrugs, looks between the bed and the ceiling, stuffs his hands in his pockets.

  Oh. I know where this is going. “Say it.”

  Elisha flushes rose gold. “Like, sex?” He sets his half-full wine glass on the writing table and folds his hands together to quiet their trembling. He can’t even look at me. “I’ve heard stories.”

  Once Elisha gets some Dociline in his blood, he won’t be so nervous. Correction: he won’t be nervous at all. I almost wish I’d been on Dociline for my first time. I’d gladly forget a few of my first partners.

  He straightens as I walk toward him, hands still in his pockets, eyes on the floor, then me, then the floor, and then me, again—I draw so close he startles backwards. I reach out, instinctively, to catch him. This is the closest Elisha and I have ever been. I can feel the heat from his skin, hear the arrhythmia of his breath.

  “Have you ever kissed anyone?”

  “No,” he says.

  I hadn’t been planning on being intimate with Elisha until he injected Dociline, until he was obedient and eager. But a selfish part of me wants him to remember this. To feel it fully.

  I tilt his head back until we’re looking into each other’s eyes, and then at each other’s lips. His are flushed, like rose petals beneath mine, and part easily when I kiss him. He nuzzles my hand when I rest it against the side of his face. Suddenly, I’m struck by how much trust he’s placed in me. He anticipated this—and more. Sought it, even. And I’ve barely thought through tonight.

  I pull back first. His cheeks and lips ripen with blood.

  “Now you have,” I say.

  I release him and walk to the door, pausing at the threshold. “The caterers are due any minute. Do not go downstairs or interact with them. Guests will begin to arrive in two hours. I expect you’ll have memorized the rules by the time I return.” I check my watch. “Be here, in this room, at six forty-five.”

  I leave without the option for further questions. If I stay, I worry I won’t be able to improvise any longer. And that I’ll want to kiss him, again.

  6

  ELISHA

  My eyes bounce between the rules and the clock. It’s 6:40, and Alex doesn’t seem like the type to be late. Everything here is so neat. Nothing stands out—even my bed is tucked away. Invisible, silent. Nothing takes up space in this immaculate house. Not for long. Not once I refuse Dociline.

  6:41: I wonder if I should be standing when he arrives.

  Alex said, Be here. Technically, I’m here.

  He didn’t say to sit down. I don’t want him to think I’m too comfortable or lazy or—

  Did it say anything in the rules about standing and sitt
ing when he’s not around?

  I skim them again, glance at the clock, run a finger over my lips. I can’t stop thinking about the kiss—about how warm and sure his lips were against mine. How I liked it. How I shouldn’t have liked it.

  The elevator dings. I’m suddenly light-headed. What if I forget a rule? Did I decide to stand up or keep studying? I can’t remember.

  I stand and push the armchair in, so it looks like I’ve been standing the whole time. My heart beats against my eardrums as Alex climbs the stairs.

  I’m supposed to stand with my hands clasped if he’s around. My hands close behind my back.

  The door opens.

  Alex walks right past me and sets a black box on his nightstand. I immediately wonder what’s inside, then bite my lip to stop myself from asking. Rule number two: don’t speak unless spoken to. I glance over my shoulder as Alex rustles through a bag. He catches me when he surfaces, holding a pile of folded clothing and a pair of shoes.

  “Put these on.” He presses them into my arms.

  “Okay.”

  “And it’s unbecoming of a Docile to peek around. Suppress your curiosity, for the night.”

  How am I supposed to do that? Elisha Wilder: the first man to suppress hundreds of thousands of years of human instinct. I hold the shoes so tightly, the laces dig into my arm. “Sorry,” I manage to say. “I will.” A lie. I’m not supposed to lie, but it’s what he wants to hear.

  “I know it’s difficult,” Alex says, and I momentarily feel better, until, “The Dociline should help.”

  My lips part—just enough to fake a breath and not betray speech. I’m torn between Carol’s advice not to tell anyone I’m going to refuse Dociline and Alex’s first rule, that I always answer honestly.

  He hasn’t directly asked.

  This is the one thing I can hold on to. It’s my right to refuse.

  “You may change in the bathroom,” he says. “And don’t touch your hair.”

  “Okay, thank you,” I say, still unsure how to respond to commands. But it satisfies Alex, so I disappear into the bathroom and turn the lock. I barely have time to set the clothes down when there’s a knock on the door. I open it to Alex.