Some part of me thought I’d wake up in Xander’s apartment with the sunlight beading through vinyl blinds, the scent of Adam’s bong choking us, and that all seven of us would wake for cream bagels and mocha.
It was for naught.
My eyes fluttered to nudging on my shoulder, the face of Eve resting inches from mine. She laid on her side in ease and still undressed, eyes seeming to sparkle with certainty as we laid on that same bed.
“Loyricuir?” She said in a smirk.
I twisted to rest on my back, looking up at reverse conical lights and a white ceiling. I noticed there was a distinct lack of Wine to my right. Good.
Light from the window showed it was early morning. I didn’t bother to look, not (yet) wanting to deal with my dreadful, existential circumstance and the overbearing captivity of this place.
Eve shuffled closer, pressing herself against me, pecking my cheek. “Naberoa rayff gie weli c'afr. Loyie dirian col dayrl egala cdieff…”
I didn’t react to her kiss, quiet in thought.
A sigh left her as she cuddled herself into my shoulder, wrapping her arms around mine. She murmured something low that I didn’t care to register, as though content with using me as a body pillow.
I tried to force myself to sleep, in one breath and shutting my eyes. Stop being lazy, part of me chided.
No, it’s not that.
Then what is it?
Another breath and my nostrils flared as I smelled body odors and other things wafting through the air. It wasn’t a repulsive smell, but neither was it pleasant. It was a strange mix of pine, grapes, and olalliberries mixed in with an after-taste of gym socks and sweaty arm pits, the tell-tale of smelling like mild shit.
“I should shower,” I said to no one flatly, rising up suddenly to the sound of her squeaking in surprise, striding toward the bathroom.
It was noticeable how odd this still felt. The weight of this chest, the stiffness of my lower rod, the smoothness of these strides, the sway of these arms, the flexes of these muscles, the smoothness of these joints, it was all different. This body, this puppet, is unique, and it was starting to come into focus.
Steam wafted from the bathroom as soon as the glass receded. A flowery scent weaved itself in the moisture, immediately clinging to me like a soaked cotton shirt. I saw that, at the other end, Wine had commandeered that large bathtub to herself, soaps and suds clinging to her fair skin and wine-hued hair, her hands brushing along her scalp and squeezing water out with ease.
My mind churned and sunk as she took notice of me, her eyes dancing along every inch of me, her neck tilting ever so slightly. She smiled and sang, “H'afl dryorsa!”
“‘Half dry-or-sey,’” I uttered, averting my eyes, affixing them to the shower, that overbearing shower, that monolith of a shower, pushing aside its large glass door.
I could appreciate that the thing was more a work of art than it was practical. The glass was etched with millions of short waving lines that created a watery surface, the tiles dark but prismatic that elicited delight as though they ingested rainbows and fire. Above, the shower head hung by a slender neck at the ceiling, wide enough that water could cascade like a torrent, and it appeared controlled by a console–an iPad-like thing coming to life as soon as I had stepped in–and two knobs below.
Nothing happened as I twisted the knobs. I feared that I’d get a Window’s update the moment I tapped the not-iPad. Instead, it was a mild rainfall, too warm, but it was a pleasant start. I understood none of its text–appearing as frustrating, cursive blocks and dots in vague similarity to the English alphabet–even more so with water dripping in front of my eyes. After some internal cursing and more button pressing, I had a torrent of icy water on me, and I involuntarily shuddered. Leaning forward and over the console, hands pressed against the wall, I must have stood there for a minute or more.
And I had to do this while staring past sizable, distracting boobs.
The sound of the glass door opening and closing, and Eve sliding by me, was what broke me out of that trance. “Naame Nnpayam, xiysas aur tuml!” I didn’t stop her from adjusting the temperature. That welcoming, icy bite shifted to a numbing, warm fall, and my therapy ended.
A “really?” look was what I spared her, and in response she tilted her head up, giving an innocent smile and gleaming with her not-so innocent eyes, eyes that had begged last night.
We began cleaning ourselves and, at my reluctance, each other, using some of the soaps and shampoos from ceramic jars. It was odd that I felt so insecure on where to scrub her, even as she did things; rubbing herself against me, fondling my junk, rubbing my back, anything that would get me hard. I did not stop her. I did not encourage her. It was awkward, and we did not go far (much to her disappointment).
A clean towel and dry skin had been arranged the moment I stepped out at a quick pace, not bothering with the hair. I did not want to be around them, my jailers.
No, idiot, they’re not.
Then who?
In the bedroom, across to the other side, there are a series bifolding doors for (what must be) the receding wardrobe. Getting dressed was the next logical, self-respecting thing I could do, and so I went there.
The doors were simple, easily moved with a latch undone. Varnished to a shine, I could see that they were of a brown wood, and when open a massive interior came into view, a room deep into the wall by at least a meter, almost as though demanding your entry. Dressers and curved shelving of clothes, shoes, blankets, towels, and other textiles were stacked in yet another artful display, another reminder why I had to escape.
Digging through the assortment of clothes was tedious, for most were made of something like linen and cotton, almost none feeling synthetic. Half were colored white, some dyed in blues, oranges, reds and purples that would seem to complement my new self. Wearing what seemed like a sports bra felt tight given my new jugs, the boxers and baggy pants more fitting with both drawstring around the waist (for there was, strangely, nothing elastic); and a t-shirt of adequate size I dressed in. The clothes did the job of at least making me look decent, yet they made me uncomfortable in that I have nothing in my name.
This still feels weird.
With the bedroom offering nothing else, I left for the larger room and kitchen. I was, again, really hungry.
Shouldn't last night have stuffed me?
The fruit bowl remained diminished, which left me to raid the refrigerator. It was a large thing sheeted in metal, two doors that opened unevenly, and two freezer drawers. It was twice the width of a normal one, inside packed with paper, ceramic, glass, and metal containers of food. No plastic?
What the hell is half of this? Most of it was unmistakably of vegetables, fruits, juices, milks, various cuts of meat and eggs, all strangely vibrant in color. A third I could not recognize as anything more than earthy mushrooms or the heads of flowers so meaty you could taste their scent. It was as though I was staring into Picasso’s and Dr. Seuss’s refrigerator.
I grabbed a glass bowl of what was the most palatable, something that looked mixed with yogurt, grains, and blueberries colored pink and purple. Finding silverware was next to trivial. Without hesitation, I dug in. It reminded me of the cereal I’d mix with honey and yogurt.
Wine was the first to join me, her hair dewy. Her loose gown, slim-fit shirt and sweater, hued white and pink, were worn in utter surety of her appeal, tucked in places that would allow her to dance. She seemed modest with the way she walked, almost as though she had a skip to her step.
My stomach sank. I didn’t want her here.
You’re not being fair to them.
I have to distance myself.
She gave me a side glance as she passed. “Hol eaara amayff woryipe?”
I didn’t respond. Their language is becoming an issue.
Rather than pluck something already made, Wine started pulling bits and pieces of ingredients, searching as though uncertain where certain things were. Her workstation, beside a stove top, expanded of things one would need for a feast, and she cooked with the skill of my mother making ok scrambled eggs (sorry, Mom).
… Where are you and Dad?
Eve joined us as soon as Wine finished whatever she had cooked, arriving dressed in pants colored green, wearing a white v-neck shirt that exposed her midriff, a dress-up that was oddly conservative for her as though everything else was not worth displaying. Wine served us three plates of something with an earthy, spicy scent, yellow like cooked egg yolks with specs of brown croutons, and a mix of greens and blue seeds. She had served me with a serving larger than either hers or Eve’s, the aroma eliciting hunger.
I hesitated, the bronze-like fork remaining still in my hand. “Rianos, eaara rayff rieau xiyie tsamryooarac,” Wine insisted.
You’re probably telling me to eat, I reasoned, shaking my head. She pouted at that.
It was a minute longer, about when Eve and Wine partially dug into theirs when I started to eat. The first bite was slow, the second less so, the third faster, and so on. I had devoured my plate in the amount of time it took them to finish half of theirs. Every bite was like bits of Xander’s Osso Buco mixed in with that vegan restaurant’s lentil soup, and with the texture of fluffy pancakes, the seeds and croutons giving it a crunch. I resented how good it tasted.
“Thank you,” I praised flatly.
Wine looked up, caught in mid sentence with whatever she was jabbering to Eve, beaming with delight as she noticed my empty plate. They resumed their conversation.
Several times they tried to converse with me, trying to ask me things that I couldn’t answer. It was odd, as though they were interrogating me, and I disliked it.
My eyes kept trailing to the double-set entrance, the same one from last night. The possibility of freedom just lied beyond the answers to my predicament out there.
I kept arguing with myself: You already know your predicament.
No… nothing is certain…
“Can I leave?”
They again stopped their conversation, eyeing me with a quizzical look. Both hesitated to answer. Now you know how it feels.
I stood up, gesturing to the door, patiently repeating, “Can I leave?”
They turned apprehensive, wordlessly looking at each other. Eve hesitated, “Rie rayff… Nabe rayff gie weli c'afr. Rayff eaara rauis?”
“Can. I. Leave?”
Both seemed to shrink under my gaze, some kind of guilt eroding their assuredness. Losing patience, I stood up, proceeding to the doorway.
“Thela?” Wine uttered.
My hand pressed against the white plate, the thing flashing red as it had last night. Again and again I pressed, trying to emphasize my point.
A hand tried to tug me by the shoulder, and I perhaps put too much force in my spin, for Eve yelped and jumped when my eyes met hers. I must have looked imposing.
“R-rie tsarcol mmil eaara hu…” she muttered.
Knots of a headache came to me, my hand briefly massaging my temple as I looked away. “I just want to see what’s outside,” I lied.
She tried approaching, trying to comfort me by caressing my arm. I pulled away.
There was a chime, the unmistakable sound of an electronic doorbell. I turned about, facing the door again, seeing the red outline shift to orange. My heart skipped a beat, my headache subsiding.
In the next moment, the orange outline flashed green, and the doors slid open. A woman of long, midnight hair and yellow eyes stood composed just past the threshold, wearing an expression that was utterly firm but calm as though committed to a task. In her hand she held a sleek case, her badge of authority. She and I exchanged looks, her eyes widening as though me standing here was not part of her plan.
I sidestepped that bitch, running headlong and down a short corridor.