Docile

by K. M. Szpara

  “Watch where you’re going!” Someone bumps me—or I bump her.

  “Sorry,” I say, too late, only to bump into someone else. A man with shiny black hair, whose movements are as smooth as his voice.

  “May I help you?” he asks. He repeats his questions in two other languages before I notice the badge on his uniform that reads:

  DOWNTOWN PARTNERSHIP DOCILE.

  Hello, my name is Antonio! Ask me for assistance.

  I speak English. Yo hablo español. Je parle français.

  “I’m fine.” I back away slowly, then pick up speed before turning around. They’re everywhere, in the city. And people walk past them without thinking twice. Not me.

  My feet beat against the stone path in sync with my heart. I’m only vaguely aware of others joining mine, of labored breath besides me, of human warmth.

  “Don’t slow down. Keep running,” says a medium-pitched voice to my left with a singsong quality. I glimpse a tall Black woman wearing a baby-blue tracksuit jogging beside me, her long box braids fastened in a knot on top of her head, before returning my eyes to the path.

  “It’s okay. My name’s Eugenia. I’m with Empower Maryland,” she says.

  My pace quickens with my heart. Empower Maryland barely shows itself in my community. I don’t like that she’s following me. “My Patron is tracking me, just so you know.”

  “That’s why you’re going to keep moving,” she says. “I’m not here to hurt you; I’m your ally. I just wanted to introduce myself and let you know Empower Maryland will help you, if you want us to.”

  I return my eyes to the road. I don’t trust her, regardless of whether she calls herself my “ally.” What does that even mean? I’m stuck with Alex until I die. “How can you possibly help me?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were enjoying debt slavery. Guess your mother’s fine as she is, too.”

  I stop. She isn’t supposed to know about my family without permission—no one is. Third Right.

  She only makes it a few paces before realizing she’s lost me. Narrowing her eyes, she says, “Aren’t you supposed to keep moving?”

  I force my feet in front of each other. Even when I’m alone, Alex is with me. “How do you know about my family?”

  “One of our contacts at the ODR tipped us off that a new Docile was planning to refuse Dociline. I didn’t believe her, at first, but…”

  Carol? She wouldn’t have. She’s my caseworker. I trusted her.

  “Listen,” she says, “no pressure. But we’re here if you need us.” I glimpse a scarred-over “US” branded on her wrist before she stuffs her hands into her pockets. A group of people running the other direction tangle between us, bumping shoulders and elbows, until I can no longer keep track of Eugenia. Until she’s only a flash of baby blue in the dispersing crowd.

  * * *

  Alex isn’t home when I return. I stand sweaty and parched in the entranceway, still thinking about Downtown Partnership Dociles and my own trustworthiness. About Empower Maryland’s offer and invasion of my privacy. About how I want a drink but don’t know if I’m allowed to get one.

  I let it all go with one deep breath. I live here now; I shouldn’t feel like I’m trespassing. Alex sent me for a run; he can’t intend to punish me for helping myself to a glass of water. I peel off my running shoes and socks, place them neatly along the wall, and tiptoe into the kitchen.

  I can’t remember which cabinet has cups in it—or even which parts of the wall are cabinets. Everything is seamless and identical. I notice a small indentation at shoulder height, then another a few feet down, and another. Now I remember.

  I fit my index finger into the groove and slide it left. The cabinet door slides open, mimicking my motion. Dishes. I try two more before I find the cups, select the plainest-looking one, and close the cabinet behind me.

  Even the tap water here tastes better.

  I sip my water while I wander through the airy living room. I glide my fingers along the dark wood of a grand piano, daring to touch the expensive instrument only in Alex’s absence. I still feel like I’ve broken in. Best to shower and clean up before Alex gets home. That’s probably what he expects of me without having specified.

  It’s not until I’m washed and dripping on the bathroom rug that I realize I don’t know what to wear or where Alex keeps my clothes. And I do not want to be naked when he gets home. Don’t want to put any ideas in his head.

  I shiver at the memory of his touch, close my eyes, and feel his lips against mine, his heavy breaths, and warm tongue. A moan vibrates in my chest and, embarrassed at my own reaction, I clear my throat. Don’t become aroused. Don’t touch yourself—don’t want to touch yourself, Elisha.

  Downstairs, the elevator dings. And I’m still naked. Fuck.

  I grab my towel and wrap it around my waist. What should I be doing? I should be doing something, rather than wandering around the house like it’s a fucking spa.

  I hear Alex’s feet pound up the stairs, watch the bedroom door swing open, and see him stop in front of me. Surprised and yet trying not to look surprised.

  “I-I took a shower,” I say, gesturing to the bathroom as if Alex doesn’t know where his own shower is.

  “I can see that.” His eyes dart around the room, landing on my half-empty glass of water.

  “And I don’t know where my clothes are.”

  “That’s okay; don’t bother. We have something to take care of, first.” Alex sets a white paper bag down on the writing table, then removes a dark wooden box with a gold hinge. It creaks open in his hands and I do my best not to crane my neck to see what’s inside.

  I’m still staring at the ceiling, minding my own business, when Alex says, “Hold out your left arm.”

  When I do, I see why he measured my wrist, this morning, and why he wouldn’t tell me what it was for. The cuff is almost two inches wide and pinkish gold with a glimmering oily finish. I can’t find a clasp, but I do notice a pull chain that disappears into the band and ends with an O-shaped ring. It’s almost clear with the exception of a few cloudy spots.

  Alex’s fingers brush the fading scar on my wrist—the marker that it’s been over a decade since the state took my mother away and branded the rest of us debtors. And this trillionaire—this man whose family invented Dociline—is going to cover it up with jewelry.

  “I was seven.” I blurt the words out before I can consider the rules. He can’t just ignore it. Pretend he wasn’t part of this. “The cops took my mother. Left me and my dad with these.”

  Alex doesn’t look at me. He adjusts the cuff so that it completely covers the scar. “Rule number two.”

  “Don’t speak unless spoken to,” I finish.

  “This is expensive,” Alex says, as if I didn’t just share a traumatic childhood experience. He fastens it and then runs his fingers around the edges, checking the fit. “It’s made from rose gold, opal”—he hooks a finger through the chain and pulls out six inches of length—“and diamond. It will not rust but requires daily cleaning not only to maintain its shine but also to keep your skin healthy. It cannot be removed by either of us, so don’t try. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now, you’ve broken three rules since you arrived. Know that beyond disciplinary measures for minor infractions, our contract stipulates that I can revoke the thousand-dollars-per-month stipend I’m currently sending your family.”

  Alex’s newfound confidence slices cold through me. Yesterday, it sounded like he was making the rules up on the spot. This morning, he’s prepared and I am not.

  I muster up a whispered, “Yes, Alex.” It’s easy to imagine defiance outside, when I’m alone, when allies present themselves. Here, I’m alone and, frankly, powerless. But I cannot forget that he owns my debt; I cannot relax.

  Relax and I might as well inject Dociline.

  “Can you name your infractions?” Alex holds up three fingers.

  “Um.” Think, Elisha, think. I don
’t want to think. I can’t. My fingertips are like ice. I’m failing this quiz. What if he adds to my punishment or takes the stipend away or—

  Alex must see me struggling, because he gives me a hint. “What rule did you just quote me?”

  “Right.” I press my fingers to my forehead and squeeze my eyes shut. “Rule number two.” I just broke that one, too. How stupid must I look?

  “Correct.” Alex puts one of his fingers down. “What else did I tell you yesterday, before my party?”

  This one I know. I knew the second I broke it. “You told me not to touch my hair and I did when I went upstairs.”

  Another finger down. One left. And I have no clue what it is.

  “The third I don’t expect you remember. You were preoccupied, but it’s still important that you learn from your mistakes.”

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Last night, I told you not to cover or hide your body from me. You did so as soon as I removed your briefs.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  “Like I said, I understand. But—”

  I huff a silent laugh.

  Alex stops. His composure falters. “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing, sorry.” I purse my lips to keep myself quiet.

  “No, say it. Say what you’re thinking.” He crosses his arms.

  Do I tell him? Rule number one, always answer Alex honestly. He wants to know or he wouldn’t have asked. I’m going to say it. Once I start, I won’t be able to hold myself back and then who knows what kind of trouble I’ll get into.

  “Well?”

  “You said you understand, but you don’t.” The words tumble out. “Yes, I hid my body from you. You’re a stranger—I know we signed a contract, that I picked you as much as you picked me. But you’ll never understand what it’s like to go hungry or freeze through a winter. To be so far in debt that the cops come to drag your family off to debtors’ prison. That you’ll do anything to keep them safe and together, including sell yourself to a stranger who expects you to have sex with him the first night you’re together.”

  I’m shaking. I clasp my hands to stop them and my gaze falters for the first time. Heat rises in the corners of my eyes, but I can’t let myself cry. I can’t lose it in front of this trillionaire.

  “I’ve never done that before,” I confess. “I’ve never been naked with another person, never let them touch me. It’s even worse that I didn’t hate it. I want to hate you.”

  “Do you?” Alex interrupts me. “Hate me.”

  “Yes—and no.”

  He nods, eyes fixed on the floor as if he’s reconsidering my fate. I imagine, for a moment, that he might have a change of heart, might at least see where I’m coming from, even if he doesn’t understand fully. Finally, he says, “For speaking out of turn—”

  “But you asked me to—”

  Alex raises his voice. “For speaking out of turn and for continuing to argue with me, I’m adding another infraction to this disciplinary session. Come with me. And leave the towel.”

  I grit my teeth to stop myself arguing further. He fucking asked. He asked, but he doesn’t want to hear the answer. Wants to pay for my company but doesn’t want to see me too closely.

  Alex leads me downstairs into the kitchen, where more shopping bags rest. He reaches into one and removes a tray and a bag of rice. “You are being punished for your outburst, not for honestly answering my question.” Then he adds, “I’m not unfair,” to make himself feel better.

  I watch, still naked, as Alex sets the tray on the floor and pries open the rice.

  Is he—he’s going to waste—

  My mouth forms a silent O when Alex pours a thin layer of uncooked rice onto the metal tray. One of our neighbors used to do something like this, but with sand and little rocks from the shore—never with food.

  “Hands behind your back.”

  I clasp them behind me.

  Alex wraps the chain from my cuff around my right wrist. “I hope this will only be a temporary measure, until you’re not tempted to relieve the pressure with your hands.” A lock clicks, securing them.

  Alex supports me as I step into place. Slowly, I kneel down on the tray. Rice digs into my stretched skin, making room where there isn’t any. When Alex lets go, I groan and readjust. The movement only causes the little grains to burrow farther into my knees. I pull at my wrists, desperate for something to lean on.

  Alex touches my back. “The less you move, the less painful it should be. I’ll be back in forty minutes, ten for each infraction. I expect to find you in this exact position.”

  “Yes, Alex.” My words make me nauseous, unless that’s the pain. I don’t turn to watch him leave. I can’t move. Every shift burns and stings.

  I can do this. It’s only forty minutes. I try not to think about it. Each grain lodges in a different nerve, grinds against my bones.

  I strain my arms against the chain, desperate. I’ll do anything for relief. My jaw aches, but I can’t unclench my teeth. The rice grates my whole body. My arms and chest tingle with pain.

  I throw my head back to stop the forming tears. Another whimper escapes me. I change positions without thinking and new grains make their homes in my knees. My body must have swallowed them all up by now. But I can do this. I can.

  A few grains of rice won’t break me.

  10

  ALEX

  I’ve read the same sentence a hundred times, and probably only the first few words. Fifteen minutes in, Elisha starts breathing heavily. The chain clinks against the cuff when he tries to break free. He’ll never learn if he doesn’t understand consequences, I remind myself, then force my eyes back onto the literature tablet.

  He forced me to do this when he refused Dociline, to institute rules and disciplines, to put that cuff on him. I barely slept last night for wondering if Elisha was going to attack me in my sleep or wreck the house or run away—all of which would betray my inability to manage. My father’s disappointed voice, Dutch and Mariah’s patronizing it’s not your fault—they haunt me. It would be my fault if I failed. I have to prove to them that I can handle a Docile, handle being a Bishop. Represent my family legacy. Own it.

  Thirty minutes in, Elisha’s breaths have turned to whimpers. Ten minutes for each infraction. It won’t kill him. My grandmother used to tell me I got off easy, that her mother made her kneel on rice when she misbehaved, and that was how she learned discipline. If it set her right enough to found Bishop Laboratories and invent a world-changing drug, then it’s good enough for Elisha.

  Right?

  Ten minutes left. I glance into the kitchen, where there are no clocks. Even from the living room, I can see beads of sweat condensing at the nape of Elisha’s neck, sliding like tears between his shoulder blades. I wonder if it hurts as much as it looks like it does or if he’s being dramatic. If it was awful, my grandmother would never have recommended it to my father.

  Maybe it should hurt. I have no other way to control him, without Dociline. If he doesn’t want to kneel on rice for forty minutes, he should break fewer rules. And yet I find myself back at the beginning of the chapter I’ve been trying to read casually, as if Elisha isn’t making me anxious. Maybe ten minutes per infraction is too long. Maybe I should shorten it to five minutes. Tell him it was so long this first time to make a point. Or will that make me look weak?

  With three minutes remaining, I force myself to walk slowly into the kitchen and stand before him. “Pay attention,” I say.

  Elisha rights his head and opens his eyes, red and watery, to meet mine. “Yes, Alex,” he mumbles.

  I clear my throat to hide my shock. This can’t be what my grandmother experienced; she would never have recommended the pain I see on Elisha’s face. Hold yourself together, Alex.

  I close my eyes momentarily to refocus and remember the punishments I came up with, last night, rather than sleeping. “There are three disciplines I’ll utilize. The first is this, kneeling on uncooked rice for a set period of time.�
� I refrain from citing the ten-minutes-per-infraction rule, allowing myself to adjust in the future. “The second is writing lines, such as ‘I will not talk back,’ a hundred times. The third is confinement.” As soon as I say it, I wonder whether, once again, I’ve gone too far. “I’m having a small cubby installed in my bedroom closet. You’ll remain in there for short periods of time to reflect on the rules.” No, it should be fine. Moderation is the key to all things.

  Elisha stares at me, unmoving. Phantom pain sears through my knees.

  “Repeat them.” I glance at my watch so I don’t have to look at him. “And then your time is up.”

  He speaks between ragged breaths. “One: kneeling on rice. Two: writing a number of assigned lines. Three: isolation for a short period of time in a cubby.”

  “Very good.” I reach back and unlock his wrists, then extend a hand to help him up, but Elisha throws both arms around me. I almost drop him, unprepared for his full weight. I want to carry him, but I shouldn’t. We’re not in this together. This is discipline. I am not rescuing him.

  “Walk with me to the bath,” I say.

  His feet barely touch the floor. Grains of rice fall from his knees while we walk.

  “Get in.” But he barely needs the prompt.

  Elisha reclines. Rice plugs at least half of the indentations in his knees. The empty ones run deep and red. I flick my finger against one of the embedded grains. Elisha gasps and grabs my hand. My instinct is to apologize, but I can’t. I’m a Bishop; I’m in control.

  “Let go,” I say. This is only his first discipline. He can’t learn that he’ll be coddled afterwards. But that doesn’t mean I won’t care for him. His health is my responsibility, legally. Not to mention I’ve got him for life. I can’t keep losing sleep, worrying Elisha will stab me with a kitchen knife or rob me and run.