Wither

The room is fully furnished, as though it’s been waiting for my arrival. There’s a walk-in closet full of clothes, but I’m only in there long enough to check for an attic door, like my parents’ closet has, but there isn’t one. The dark polished wood of the dresser matches the dressing table and ottoman; on the wall are generic paintings—a sunset, a painting of a beachside picnic. The wallpaper is made up of vertical vines budding roses, and they remind me of the bars of a prison cell. I avoid my reflection in the dressing table mirror, afraid I’ll lose my mind if I see myself in this place.



I try opening the window, but when that proves futile, I take in the view. The sun is just beginning to set in yellows and pinks, and there’s a myriad of flowers in the garden. There are trickling fountains. The grass is mowed into strips of green and deeper green. Closer to the house a hedge sections off an area with an inground pool, unnaturally cerulean. This, I think, is the botanical heaven my mother imagined when she planted lilies in the yard. They would grow healthy and vibrant, thriving despite the wasteland of dirt and dust. The only time flowers bloomed in our neighborhood was when she was alive. Other than my mother’s flowers, there are those wilting carnations that shopkeepers sell in the city, dyed pink and red for Valentine’s Day, along with red roses that always look rubbery or parched in the windows.



They, like humanity, are chemical replicas of what they should be.



The boy who brought my lunch mentioned that one of the other girls was taking a walk in the garden, and I wonder if the House Governor is merciful enough to let us go outside freely. I don’t know much about them at all except that they’re all either younger than twenty-five or approaching seventy—the latter being from the first generation, and they’re a rarity. By now the first generation has watched enough of its children die pre-maturely, and they are unwilling to experiment on yet another generation. They even join the protest rallies, violent riots that leave irreparable damage.



My brother. He would have known immediately that something was wrong when I didn’t come home from work. And I’ve been gone for three days. No doubt he’s beside himself; he warned me about those ominous gray vans that roll slowly through city streets at all hours.



But it wasn’t one of those vans that took me at all. I could never have seen this coming.



It’s the thought of my brother, alone in that empty house, that forces me to stop pitying myself. It’s coun-terproductive. Think. There must be some way to escape.



The window clearly isn’t opening. The closet leads to only more clothes. The chute where the boy threw the dirty dishrag is only inches wide. Maybe, if I can win the House Governor’s favor, I’ll be trusted enough to wander the garden alone. From my window the garden looks endless. But there has to be an end somewhere. Maybe I can find an exit by squeezing through a hedge or scaling a fence. Maybe I’ll be one of the public brides, flaunted at televised parties, and there will be an opportunity to slip quietly into the crowd. I have seen so many reluctant brides on television, and I’ve always wondered why the girls don’t run. Maybe the cameras neglect to show the security system that keeps them trapped.



Now, though, I worry that I may never even have a chance to make it to one of those parties. For all I know, it will take years to earn a House Governor’s trust. And in four years, when I turn twenty, I’ll be dead.



I try the doorknob, and to my surprise it isn’t locked.



The door creaks open, revealing the hallway.



Somewhere a clock is ticking. There are a few doors lining the walls, mostly closed, with dead bolts. There’s a dead bolt on my door as well, but it’s open.



I tread slowly, my bare feet giving me an advantage because on this rich green carpet I’m practically silent. I pass the doors, listening for sound, signs of life. But the only sound comes from the door at the end of the hallway that’s slightly ajar. There are moans, gasps.



I freeze where I stand. If the House Governor is with one of his wives trying to impregnate her, it would only make things worse for me if I walked in on it. I don’t know what would happen—I’d either be executed or asked to join, probably, and I can’t imagine which would be worse.



But no, the sounds are strictly female, and she’s alone.



Cautiously I peek through the slit in the door, then push the door open.



“Who’s there?” the woman murmurs, and this throws her into a rage of coughs.



I step into the room and find that she’s alone on a satin bed. But this room is far more decorated than mine, with pictures of children on the walls, and an open window with a billowing curtain. This room looks lived in, comfortable, and nothing like a prison.



On her nightstand there are pills, vials with droppers, empty and near-empty glasses of colored fluids. She props herself on her elbows and stares at me. Her hair is blond, like mine, but its shade is subdued by her sallow skin. Her eyes are wild. “Who are you?”



“Rhine,” I give my name quietly, because I’m too unnerved to be anything but honest.



“Such a beautiful place,” she says. “Have you seen the pictures?”



She must be delirious, because I don’t understand what she’s saying. “No,” is all I say.



“You didn’t bring me my medicine,” she says, and drifts gracefully back to her sea of pillows with a sigh.



“No,” I say. “Should I get something?” Now it’s clear that she is delirious, and if I can make up an excuse to leave, maybe I can return to my room and she’ll forget I was even here.



“Stay,” she says, and pats the edge of her bed. “I’m so tired of these remedies. Can’t they just let me die?”



Is this what my future as a bride will look like? Being so entrapped I’m not even allowed the freedom of death?



I sit beside her, overwhelmed by the smell of medication and decay, and beneath that, something pleasant.



Potpourri—perfumed, dehydrated flower petals. That melodic smell is everywhere, surrounding us, making me think of home.



“You’re a liar,” the woman in the bed says. “You didn’t come to bring my medicine.”



“I never said I did.”



“Well, then, who are you?” She reaches her trembling hand and touches my blond hair. She holds up a lock of it for inspection, and then a horrible pain fills her eyes.



“Oh. You’re my replacement. How old are you?”



“Sixteen,” I say, again startled into honesty. Replacement? Is she one of the House Governor’s wives?



She stares at me for a while, and the pain begins to recede into something else. Something almost maternal.



“Do you hate it here?” she says.



“Yes,” I say.



“Then you should see the verandah.” She smiles as she closes her eyes. Her hand falls away from my hair. She coughs, and blood from her mouth splatters my nightgown. I’ve had nightmares that I’ll enter a room where my parents have been murdered and lay in a pool of fresh blood, and in those nightmares I stand in the doorway forever, too frightened to run. Now I feel a similar terror.



I want to go, to be anywhere but here, but I can’t seem to make my legs move. I can only watch as she coughs and struggles, and my gown becomes redder for it. I feel the warmth of her blood on my hands and face.



I don’t know how long this goes on for. Eventually someone comes running, an older woman, a first generation, holding a metal basin that sloshes soapy water. “Oh, Lady Rose, why didn’t you press the button if you were in pain?” the basin woman says.



I hurry to my feet, toward the door, but the basin woman doesn’t even notice me. She helps the coughing woman sit up in the bed, and she peels off the woman’s nightgown and begins to sponge the soapy water over her skin.



“Medicine in the water,” the coughing woman moans.



“I smell it. Medicine everywhere. Just let me die.”



She sounds so horrible and wounded that, despite my own situation, I pity her.



“What are you doing?” a voice whispers harshly behind me. I turn and see the boy who brought my lunch earlier, looking nervous. “How did you get out? Go back to your room. Hurry, go!” This is one thing my nightmares never had, someone forcing me into action. I’m grateful for it. I run back to my open bedroom, though not before crashing into someone standing in my path.



I look up, and I recognize the man who has caught me in his arms. His smile glimmers with bits of gold.



“Why, hello,” he says.



I don’t know what to make of his smile, whether it’s sinister or kind. It takes only a moment longer for him to notice the blood on my face, my gown, and then he pushes past me. He runs into the bedroom where the woman is still in a riot of coughs.



I run into my bedroom. I tear off the nightgown and use the clean parts of it to scrub the blood from my skin, and then I huddle under the comforter of my bed, holding my hands over my ears, trying to hide from those awful sounds. This whole awful place.



The sound of the doorknob awakens me this time.



The boy who brought my lunch earlier is now holding another silver tray. He doesn’t meet my eyes; he crosses the room and sets the tray on my nightstand.



“Dinner,” he says solemnly.



I watch him from where I’m huddled in my blankets, but he doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t even raise his head as he picks the sullied nightgown off the floor, splattered with Rose’s blood, and disposes of it in the chute. Then he turns to go.



“Wait,” I say. “Please.”



He freezes, with his back to me.



And I’m not sure what it is about him—that he’s close to my own age, that he’s so unobtrusive, that he seems no happier to be here than I am—but I want his company.



Even if it can only be for a minute or two.



“That woman—,” I say, desperate to make conversation before he leaves. “Who is she?”



“That’s Rose,” he says. “The House Governor’s first wife.” All Governors take a first wife; the number doesn’t refer to the order of marriage, but is an indication of power. The first wives attend all the social events, they appear with their Governors in public, and, apparently, they are entitled to the privilege of an open window.



They’re the favorites.



“What’s wrong with her?”



“Virus,” he says, and when he turns to face me, he has a look of genuine curiosity. “You’ve never seen someone with the virus?”



“Not up close,” I say.



“Not even your parents?”



“No.” My parents were first generation, well into their fifties when my brother and I were born, but I’m not sure I want to tell him this. Instead I say, “I try really hard not to think about the virus.”