I kept still. Because that’s what you do here. You stay quiet. You stay compliant. You let them take what they need and hope they don’t look too closely. Because if they do, they might see the cracks. And cracks get punished.
The doctor adjusted his clipboard, eyes flicking over whatever notes had been left from before. Then he looked at me. Not like a person. Like a file.
“Any dizziness?” he asked, voice flat.
“No.”
“Sleep disturbances?”
I hesitated. “Yes.”
He didn’t look surprised. Just scribbled something down.
“Appetite?”
“Fine.”
“Any emotional irregularities?”
That one made me pause. What did that even mean here? Was crying irregular? Was wanting to stay with someone who didn’t treat me like property? Was feeling anything at all a problem?
“No,” I said.
He nodded, like that was the answer he expected.
“Any resistance to reassignment?”
My throat tightened. But I kept my voice steady. “No.” I knew if I answered anything other than that two word answer, I’d be placed into retrainment. Where punishment wasn’t just training. It was demanded. For weeks on end with no breaks.
He didn’t look up. Didn’t ask if I meant it. Just checked a box.
I sat still, hands folded, posture perfect. Because that’s what they wanted.
Compliance. Clean answers. No signs of life beneath the surface. And I was good at that.
Too good.
“Good. Now, to check your stats.” He didn’t give me any warnings, just went about it like a business transaction.
Checked my heart and lungs. Checked my reflexes. Made notes on his clipboard.
“Cleared for the next client.”
Great,I thought, dread filling me like no other.
“Thank you, Sir.” I spoke quietly, but loud enough he could hear me.
“Go to your room. The schedule will be updated within the hour.”
I slipped from the table, glad that the doctor didn’t do a more thorough exam. My feet led me from the room, from the building, to outside. The warm sun didn’t warm me as I walked the stone pathway to my sleeping quarters. The buzz of the birds and bees nagged at my brain. The lone passing car that sped down the drivewaytowards the client house set fire in my gut that wasn’t going to be put out easily.
The halls hadn’t changed. They were the same polished floors, same muted lighting, same faint scent of disinfectant clinging to the air like memory.
I passed other closed, unmarked doors. Each one holding its own story, its own silence.
When I reached mine, I opened it without ceremony. I stepped inside, seeing it just as I remembered.
Plain. Clean. Empty in all the ways that mattered. A bed. A dresser. A small desk with nothing on it. No photos. No books. No signs that anyone lived here.
