Author: Ell Rodman

I spent most of Monday morning awake in bed, staring at a clock that reads three hundred and eighty two. Its set into a wall of deep green steel tainted by orange rust. Or did the clock stare at me? I could never tell where the cameras were. Next to me, Missy Mae slept silently. Her alabaster skin was covered in matted blonde hair, blank eyes framed by blue eye shadow that was beginning to smear.

I’d have to fix that later.

With a sigh, I descended the stairs. They were carpeted with a series of emergency blankets stashed in the back of the local commissary. There was nothing worse in the early morning than feeling cold steel on one’s bare feet. I rounded the corner into the kitchen and plopped down onto a barstool by the counter. While the walls and ceilings were the same cramped, rusted green as my room, the furniture had some personality; rickety stools were made of real warm wood, the counters a cracked white plaster, the sink – if you could believe this – actual earth-sourced marble. To outside eyes, it may have looked like just another stack of shipping containers. Inside, however, it was home.

I coughed. Unfortunately, it was hard to find unoccupied housing in this area. Our roommate Frankie stood in front of the oven, intently watching a baking loaf. She liked to lounge about our shared apartment in her nightrobe, a short silky number that clung to her hips and barely concealed her considerable form. We have a history, I’m ashamed to say. It’s something Missy doesn’t know about, and I’m damned lucky the two don’t speak very often.

“I had a bad dream this morning,” I said meekly. I’d talk about my relationship with my mother if it meant not being entranced by those thick legs again. “It was about my case. It wasn’t right, y’know? Wasn’t fair.” Frankie gave no indication she heard me, which was not uncommon. The woman had sex appeal like you wouldn’t believe, but all the conversational talent of a cat’s asshole.

The oven timer went off. She made no move to open it or speak to me. Frustrated, I walked to the oven, ignored the slight flutters in my stomach as my hand brushed by where that silky robe clung to her hip. I cut myself a slice of the loaf and walked out the door. I may have stammered a goodbye, an apology, or a “don’t tell Missy”, but whichever it was fell on deaf ears.

It was dark outside – our daytime simulation had been buggy all Autumn. Two halves of a splintered moon sparkled like a stripper’s glitter in the sky. I walked to my daily, clocked in, and sat on a synthetic tire. It had three hundred and eighty-two marks on it, and I added another before rolling it towards Jeff. I knew he was a melancholy type, but I didn’t know he was fragile.

The tire burst through his legs, shattering them to pieces. His blank face reflected nothing of the pain I just put him through. Why would it? He was a department store mannequin. The only difference between him and Missy or Frankie were poorly lubricated silicone parts I’d glued between the latter’s legs. My shaky hand brought a cigarette to my lips. Fixed to my wrist, a chrome shackle displayed a red number: 2,537. The number of days I had left in isolation in this prison box on the edge of the galaxy.

I watched through tears as the tire spun itself to the ground.