Docile Page 12

  He presses the glass to his lips and drinks it down without stopping to breathe. Then he gasps and hands it back.

  I set the empty glass on the nightstand, then pull open the closet, freshly filled and organized by the laundry Docile. The thin edges of a trapdoor show in the middle of the walkway. I press my index finger against the lock, then lift the top to reveal a small crawl space.

  “Get in.”

  Elisha’s knuckles whiten as he grips the edges and lowers himself down. His knees bang against the hard tile.

  “Let go.” I prod his fingers off the ledge.

  When he’s all the way in, I begin to close the hatch.

  “Alex?” His voice comes quietly from the dark.

  “What?” I lift the hatch a few inches. Elisha’s eyes catch the light. The hope is gone from them.

  “What if I have to pee?”

  I can’t look at him when I answer. His question exposes the reality of what I’m making him do. It’s different looking at an empty crawl space, knowing there’s an emergency buzzer and a vent, and that the company who installed it has installed dozens of these around Baltimore without a single complaint. Who would complain? Not the Dociles.

  I swallow hard. “There’s a drain in the floor.”

  With that, I shut the hatch. My fingerprint locks it. Once again, the hardwood blends with the rest of my closet floor. You’d never know a person was inches below. I set a timer with a touch of my fingers and do my best to forget.

  I take my time drawing a bath, draping a towel over the warmer. I tap the wall and then my fingers together. Dim lights, no bigger than fireflies, dot the bathtub walls. The overhead fades to black. I sink below the hot water, burning my face. Cool air kisses my skin when I surface. It’s too quiet. All I hear is Elisha pleading with me, begging I go easy on him.

  Seventy minutes is too long, isn’t it? It’s not like he’ll know how long it’s been, if I take him out early. “City sounds,” I say, louder than necessary. Conversation and cars creep up around me. But in my mind, Elisha drowns them out.

  * * *

  During the week that passes, the spark snuffs out of Elisha, out of our conversations and our touch, and I hope that doesn’t means I broke him. I need to do something to revive him—and not only because Mariah’s party looms around the corner, but also to show him I’m not upset. That a punishment only lasts as long as its timer.

  Elisha returns from his morning run red-faced and sweating. He almost doesn’t notice me sitting at the island in the kitchen. I motion him over and he complies. “You’re getting fast.” I rub the small of his back; it’s damp and hot against my hand—unpleasant—but I don’t want Elisha to know, so I pull him closer. We look over his running times. “Really fast, actually.” I am genuinely surprised. “Faster than me.”

  He shrugs, not as impressed as I am. “I like running.”

  The idea that Elisha could enjoy an assigned activity, like a hobby, completely evaded me. And, now, I know how to fix this. With a few taps on the tabletop, I bring up one of the basic diagnostics we use on the Dociles at work. “Would you like to take a creativity test?”

  Elisha leans over the counter, afraid to touch it now that it’s alight with documents and menus. “You’re asking me?”

  “Yes. All our Dociles at the lab consent to testing in their contracts. It wasn’t in yours, so … I’m asking, now.”

  “You won’t”—he looks sternly at me—“inject me with Dociline?”

  “Absolutely not.” I hand him my stylus.

  I slide the test window in front of him. Each question prompts the subject to describe how a different work of art makes them feel. First, a physical replica of van Gogh’s Starry Night materializes—paint, brushstrokes, and all.

  “Can I touch it?”

  “Please,” I say. Most Dociles do so without asking.

  Elisha traces the wind with his fingertips, circles the stars. He’s never looked at me the way he looks at blue swirls of a painted sky.

  “What do you think of it?” I ask, while he writes.

  “It reminds me of home,” he says, without looking up.

  When I hold my palm open beneath the painting and its gilded frame, the paint and precious metal dissolve back into meaningless particles and return to whence they came.

  Elisha is still working when I ask, “Would you like another piece? Perhaps music, this time.” I select Franz Liszt’s “Liebesträum no. 3,” a favorite.

  “Sure.”

  Warm notes dance throughout the room. Up they twirl and tiptoe like a ballerina’s bourrée en couru. Elisha closes his eyes while the piano diminuendos. Only when he bends down to write again do I catch the hint of a smile—not meant for me. It overflows from inside him.

  “And this one?”

  Elisha closes his eyes for more than a minute before answering. “I imagine this is what love sounds like.” His forehead creases. “It sort of hurts, doesn’t it?”

  I take a breath and hold it. The knot in my chest feels as fresh as the day it was tied. “Yeah, I guess it does. ‘Oh lieb, solang du lieben kannst.’”

  “Are those the lyrics?” Elisha asks.

  “No, it’s a German poem that inspired the composer.”

  “But you know the poem.”

  By heart. “‘Er aber sieht und hört dich nicht, kommt nicht, daß du ihn froh umfängst; der Mund, der oft dich küßte spricht nie wieder: Ich vergab dir längst.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  I draw in a breath and close my eyes. “‘Yet he sees and hears you not, you cannot comfort him again; the lips which kissed you often speak, not again: I forgave you long ago.’”

  I remember reading the poem as a boy and asking my tutor why anyone would write such a horrible thing. She replied, in German of course, that love was horrible and struck down even the best of us.

  They don’t make love like that, anymore. Now it’s all bank accounts and subpoenas and Genea-Economic records. There’s no ache. Breaking up with Javier didn’t hurt.

  “Alex?” Elisha asks as if for the second or third time.

  “Hm?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I uh…” I study Elisha. He looks alive, again. “You’ll take German,” I say. “And piano. I’ll arrange for tutors, next week. How would you like that?”

  “A lot, actually,” he says, and I kiss him for it. If no one else, Elisha is real. And I have to take care that he remains that way.

  14

  ELISHA

  Alex stretches his hand toward me through flashes of light. I fumble for his fingers, squeezing harder than I should when I find them. He pulls me from the limousine—a car designed much longer than two people could ever need—and onto marble pavement.

  I’m thankful he picked the tie-on sandals for my costume. Those shoes with the spiky heels would’ve sent me flying to my death in front of all these people. It’s hard enough to balance with giant feathered wings fixed to my back.

  “Dr. Bishop!”

  “Over here, Dr. Bishop!”

  “Dr. Bishop, is that your new Docile? Can we get a picture?”

  Alex stops and the flashes flare around us. I shield my eyes.

  Their laughter deafens me. “Don’t you ever let him outside, Dr. Bishop?”

  Alex’s smile blocks the light. He’s all I can see.

  “This is Elisha.”

  “How long have you had him?”

  “Three months.”

  “Turn around for us, hon!”

  Alex grabs my shoulder to stop my guessing whether I should listen to these people.

  “Aw, come on, Bishop. Just a spin. Let’s see the goods.”

  I lean into Alex, not sure if I can stand much more of this. Even though he warned me, I didn’t expect such a fuss.

  “Fine.” Alex raises my hand over my head. “Go ahead, Elisha. Give me a quick spin.”

  My skin is hot against the early spring air. The only real clothes I’m wearing
are a pair of thick, white briefs, embroidered with threads of real gold and studded with diamonds. I’m afraid to walk in them. But I promised Alex I’d behave. I’m doing this for him, not the tabloids.

  No, wrong, this is for my family.

  I raise up onto my toes, turning while Alex guides me.

  “Good boy,” he says—loud enough that only I can hear—then kisses my neck.

  The first notes of shame play across my face. Good boy. It’s one thing when he calls me that in private—and even alone, the pet name embarrasses me. It means I’m giving in. And in front of these cameras? Everyone can see what I’ve become. Thankfully, my family doesn’t get the tabloids out that far.

  “Dr. Bishop!” A man lunges forward, thrusting a small electronic device into Alex’s face. “Are the rumors true? Did Elisha refuse Dociline?”

  The crowd falls silent.

  Alex looks me over, from the diamond-dust halo projected over my head to my polished toenails. “Elisha declined Dociline,” he says—to me. Not with anger or regret. With a smile. With pride. “As is his right.”

  Another journalist steps forward. “Dr. Bishop, Keesha Owens with The Baltimore Sun.” Alex gives this one his full attention. “First, may I compliment you on how well-behaved and presentable Elisha looks.”

  Alex smiles, proudly. “Thank you.”

  A small part of me wants to disprove the compliment. To disobey. I’m the one doing all the work, not him. I’m the one who exercises six days a week and has changed his entire diet. Who’s suppressed his curiosity, his instincts, his identity. Who’s become a good boy.

  I’m glad when Owens continues and the moment slips away. When I remember that it wouldn’t be strong of me to get myself punished, to get on Alex’s bad side, to make him revoke the stipend he’s sending my family. It would be stupid.

  “What’s it been like working with an off-med so extensively, and has the experience influenced your work at Bishop Laboratories with regards to leadership or the forthcoming Formula 3.0?”

  “It’s been enlightening!” Alex and Owens both laugh. They sound fake.

  “I bet,” she says.

  Alex slides a hand around my waist, pulling me against him. “Truly, though, the experience has allowed me to think outside the box, as they say. I’m hoping to bring a fresh point of view to Formula 3.0 based on the insights working with Elisha has provided me.”

  When he rubs his hand over my body without any overt sexual agenda, I become aware of mine resting over his ribs, fingering his red polka-dot button-down. It strikes me that our motions mimic actual affection.

  Owens smiles, clearly satisfied with Alex’s answer. “I’ve never known a Bishop to back down from opportunity. And you seem to be handling this one expertly.”

  “Thank you,” he says.

  “And thank you for your time.”

  Owens steps back, but before we can pass, a recording device thrusts forward. I recoil, surprised by the intrusion, and Alex holds up his palm to stop them.

  “Dr. Bishop, do you think that Elisha’s refusal of Dociline reflects the drug’s decline?”

  “No,” he answers without looking the reporter in the eye.

  “Do you know why he refused?”

  Alex moves on, ignoring them.

  “Dr. Bishop!” they shout. “What about the rumors that—”

  “I don’t respond to rumors.” Alex stops to face the reporter. “What outlet do you work for?”

  “Chadwick Bell, for the City Paper: can you comment on the rumored side effects of—” He speaks so fast I can barely understand him.

  Alex closes his hand over Chadwick’s and angles the device toward his mouth. “Come back when you have some facts. Until then, City Paper”—he looks Chadwick up and down—“show some integrity.”

  Questions and comments fly amidst the camera lights. Alex steers me up the stairs into Mariah’s building, declining further pictures. Another limousine pulls up behind us and we’re soon forgotten.

  A woman in a crisp black suit stops us in the entryway, then consults a tablet. “Dr. Alexander Bishop the Third?”

  “Yes,” Alex says. “That’s me.”

  “Your Docile is off-med?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman taps the tablet. “Ms. VanBuren requests that all off-meds be leashed, inside her home. At least until she’s sure they’re sufficiently well behaved.”

  Alex purses his lips only for a second before smiling again. “Understood.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Bishop. You can pick up a courtesy leash at the coat check.”

  We follow the line of guests to a closet as large as my house, where Dociles exchange coats and bags for tickets. Alex hands over his blazer and receives both a ticket and a long chain that matches my cuff.

  Alex sighs while he slides the chain through the O-shaped end, creating a loop. “You don’t need this,” he mumbles, slipping the loop over my head. The chain is shockingly cool against my skin. “Don’t act like you do.”

  “I won’t.” I hold my chin up while he adjusts the chain. A tug signals he’s finished and I follow, no longer able to dally or hesitate. I should be embarrassed, but when I remember I’m mostly naked in a stranger’s house, the chain feels more like a security blanket than a leash. Alex, on the other hand, fiddles nervously with the chain, unsure how to hold it.

  The ceiling arches high above us, as we make our way past the foyer. The only light shines from tiny stars patterned across the ceiling and floor in real constellations. White silk cushions shaped like clouds—big as king-sized beds—sit around the room.

  Trillionaires lounge on them, wearing expensive suits and dresses in white or red to go with the heaven and hell theme. All the Dociles on this floor are painted in white and gold swirls, like clouds wrapped around their skin. Fruit, golden sauces, and white liquor are laid out on every table. The scent of sex and sugary fruit wafts from a recessed pit, padded entirely with pillows, where an orgy of Dociles moan and writhe against one another. This must be Mariah’s version of heaven. I clench tightly around the anal plug, grateful for its presence.

  “Alex!” I recognize the woman who waves from our visit to Bishop Labs—Jess, Alex’s Head of Research. “Thank god you’re here.” She walks over and nods hello, dressed in theme with a silver halo and a white strapless dress that ends in cute lace trim. “Hey, Elisha.”

  “Good to see you.” It feels odd acting as casual with her as she does with me. Jess is not my friend. She makes Dociline.

  “Keep me company?” she asks Alex. “Mariah’s holding court downstairs and you know how much I love Dociles trying to get up my skirt.”

  I sympathize with her, since I feel that way about trillionaires, but then Alex says, “Same.”

  I’m so surprised, I don’t notice he’s begun to walk downstairs with Jess until the leash pulls tight around my throat. Alex swats my hands away when I reach up to loosen it. “Don’t touch it.” His fingers linger around my neck while he fixes the chain. “You’re not supposed to need it, remember?”

  “I remember.” I nod for extra assurance.

  “Good.” He grips the leather handle in his fist as we near the bottom of the steps and step into what might as well be hell.

  Flames rise up from the bronze vases, glittering unnaturally. When Alex swipes his fingers through them, I gasp before realizing he’s unharmed. Despite my shock, I manage to keep slack in the chain that joins us.

  “You’ve really outdone yourself,” Alex says loudly enough that Mariah and Dutch look up from their conversation.

  “Bishop!” Dutch hops up and grabs Alex’s hand for a hard shake. “I see you brought the Docile out of hiding. All trained up?”

  “Absolutely.” Alex looks at me as if to say, Right?

  “Good.” He nudges Alex. “I’m getting a little bored with all these preprogrammed blow jobs from the on-meds, you know? I could use a real live cocksucker.” His laugh billows over the thumping bass.

  Mariah
kisses Alex’s cheek, then turns to inspect me. Her eyes linger on the halo of diamond dust that hovers over a thin brown headband disguised by my hair. She smooths her hand over my feathered wings—I did not ask if they were real, and I hope no one does because I don’t want to find out—then slides her fingers down my side, stopping to squeeze the ridge of muscle developing.

  “You’re doing well,” she says—again, to Alex, not me. I squeeze my fingers together behind my back when she eyes my crotch, but she doesn’t touch me any further. “I’ll put in a good word for you with the Board,” she says.

  “Appreciated.” Alex tugs on my leash and I follow the group of trillionaires to their seats.

  Not seconds after they grace the couch, Dociles descend between their legs, unbuttoning pants, diving up skirts. My eyes widen, but the trillionaires don’t even seem to notice. They take drinks layered in red and orange that stain their lips, thrusting their hips up occasionally to meet a waiting mouth.

  I hope I’ve blended into the couch. That no one will notice I’m sitting here beside Alex. He remembers me. He fondles my hair and rubs my neck, all the while laughing, discussing technology I’ve never used and businesses I’ve never heard of.

  “Hey, Bishop,” Dutch says. “Let me do you one. I brought Opal and Onyx with me. You deserve not to think about the Docile bobbing on your junk, after three months of work.”

  “You know I like a challenge,” says Alex.

  Is that how he sees me, as a challenge? He didn’t decide I wouldn’t take Dociline; I did. I refused him. I grind my teeth to keep the words inside.

  “I also know you like pretty boys. Onyx!” Dutch snaps his fingers and a lithe Black guy, probably around my age, crawls over. Come frames his smile. “That’s my good boy.”

  “Don’t be rude, Dutch,” Mariah says, a Docile already buried up her skirt. “Aren’t you going to offer Opal to Jess?”

  Jess looks at us through her tilted wine glass. “Hm?”

  “Oh, uh.” Dutch looks thrown. “I think she’s occupied.”

  I’ve never heard Dutch fumble his words, before.

  Mariah watches Jess chug the rest of her drink.