#zipwrites

A short, sharp zap to the sternum shut me up, at least for a second. “Your pain,” she repeated, seizing my chin in her hand, “is what makes you useful. Say it three times, and this session ends, alright? That’s a pretty clear win condition. You’d have to be stupid not to accept it.”

I loosened my jaw, made like I was going slack with defeat. “M … my …”

Her fingers slipped on my sweaty skin as her grip tightened. “Yeah?” she prompted.

I jerked my head to the side, and my teeth closed around flesh and bone. I tasted blood before she screeched, and before she had the presence of mind to electrocute me again. The prod drove deep into my stomach, but I clenched my jaw down harder against the pain, against the screaming in my ear. You’re gonna hurt with me, motherfucker.

Finally I couldn’t stand the electricity anymore. I released her mangled fingers, and her blood dripped down my chin. She reared back and didn’t waste a second in driving the cattle prod into my stomach, zapping me so long it began to burn. “You son of a bitch!” Her boot drove into my leg, and as it buckled, the prod dragged up my chest.

I was seeing stars by the time it ended, colors swirling in my vision like they were trying to brighten up the plain tile of my cell. The trainer hissed in pain, flexing her injured hand. I couldn’t see how good I’d gotten her, but I could still taste her blood, so I had to assume it was pretty goddamn good. I spit some of it out by her boots.

She just glared at me. “You don’t eat until you say your affirmations, you goddamn brat. Enjoy starving.” She hooked her cattle prod into her belt and left, slamming the door behind her.

It had been a slip of the tongue—a reflex, like flinching away from a hot stove. So, how long have you two lovebirds been married? Oh, we’re not— He’d bitten his tongue before he could finish. Joy had laughed, squeezing his side. My silly husband, she’d said, pecking him on the cheek. We’ve always been best friends. He just forgets sometimes that we’ve finally tied the knot. The older lady behind the counter had cooed about how romantic that was, how Beckett looked just like her husband did when he was younger. Beckett had let Joy do the talking; she was good at that.

Now, he sipped air as though from a tiny straw. “I’m sorry, darling.”

She pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck. Her lipstick left a dark brand. “You will be,” she murmured. “Take the groceries to the kitchen.”

Mechanically, Beckett gathered the bags and did as he was told. Down the hall, in the immaculately arranged kitchen, he placed the fruit in the bowl atop the granite island and laid the baguettes beside it. The carton of milk, the greens, the chicken all went in the refrigerator, each item in its place. Meanwhile, Joy opened the long, thin drawer to the right of the fridge. Beckett kept his eyes up when he closed the door, moving to fold the paper bags into neat, flattened squares, stowing them away in the recycling bin. Then there was nothing left to do. Beckett straightened up, his back to Joy. His throat bobbed as her drawer glided shut with a quiet thud.

“Take off your shirt.”

His breathing stuttered. “Joy, p-please—”

Something metallic dragged across the countertop behind him. “I said, take off your fucking shirt, Becky.”

He unfastened the buttons with trembling fingers, one by one, from his throat to his belt buckle. He audibly drew in a breath before he untucked the hem and pulled his arms through the sleeves. He removed his undershirt more quickly, as though plunging into cold water. His biceps were littered with straight, methodical lines. Some were faded; some new. Carved into his left shoulder blade, just beginning to heal, was a heart.

The silence behind him swelled. Abruptly, he whirled around. Joy was leaning against the kitchen island, her eyes roving over his exposed form as she stroked a finger down the blade of a short, sharp knife. She met his gaze, expression unreadable. She pulled out a stool at the island. “Sit.”

He sat, his spine straight against the low-backed seat. Joy stroked a hand over his bare shoulders, running her thumb over the heart-shaped scar on his back, and he shivered. “Does this mean nothing to you?” Her lips brushed his ear. “Do you know who you are?”

He flinched, his hands curling against the granite. He pressed them flat to still their trembling. “I’m Mr. Joy Clemence,” he murmured.

“You’re my husband,” she said pointedly.

He swallowed, then repeated, “I’m your husband.”

“Lean forward. Say it again.”

Beckett pressed his forehead to the countertop, his breath fogging the cold granite. “I’m your h-husband.”

The knife bit into his back, neatly parting his barely-healed scar. “Again.”

He breathed through his clenched teeth. “I’m your husband. I’m your husband. I’m your … husband.” His voice pitched up with pain. A stream of blood spilled down his ribcage and dripped onto the counter as the knife slid down. “Joy, please—”

“Did I tell you to beg?” she asked mirthlessly.

He breathed out. “No, ma’am.”

Her teeth nipped his ear, her breath hot on his skin. “What are you?”

“Your husband,” he said, his hands curled into fists, “I’m your husband, I’m your husband …” He stammered through the mantra as the knife traced over the scar, slow and painful, splitting it open with a neat precision. He didn’t stop until the blade lifted, then clattered to the countertop.

He winced at the noise, then at the sudden pressure of Joy’s teeth on the shell of his ear. Her lipstick smeared his earlobe as she pulled back, ever so slightly. “You are my husband,” she whispered fiercely. “And don’t forget it again.”

He went boneless, tears and blood and sweat pooling beneath him on the counter. “Yes, dear,” he murmured.

-

He held up a hand, and I fell quiet. “I’ve just got a few questions to ask you, and then I’ll answer yours, alright?” He looked at me expectantly. I glanced at the woman; she was leaning against the door, a clipboard propped against her arm. There weren’t many places to lean in this small room other than the door, but something about the blocked doorway made me nervous. I nodded at the man. Whatever gets me out of here fastest. “Excellent! First question: Where did you attend elementary school?”

Weird thing to ask, but easy enough. I opened my mouth to reply—and it was like I’d smacked right into a glass door. I was sure the answer was on the other side, but the door wouldn’t open, and I couldn’t see what lay beyond it. “I ….” The silence stretched as I trailed off.

“It’s okay not to know,” the man said gently. “You can just say, ‘I don’t know.’”

 “I don’t know,” I repeated, my voice hoarse. The woman jotted something down.

The man seemed unperturbed, giving no sign of whether or not they’d expected that response. “Okay, next question: Name any U.S. president.”

Again, easy—or it should’ve been. My fingers dug into the foam mat beneath me as I strained for an answer. I knew this. I’d learned it, at some point— probably at the elementary school I couldn’t seem to remember. “Um … Thomas something. Jeffers?”

The woman wrote something down again. The man’s gaze was kind, but somehow not reassuring, not at all. “Next question, bud: What is a pet’s favorite place?”

I’d been about ready to ask how many questions there were, but that one snapped me out of the foreboding feeling in my gut. I furrowed my eyebrows; it seemed more subjective than the other ones. “I … guess it depends on the pet?” I said.

“Dig a little deeper for me,” the man persisted. “Any other answers coming up?”

I glanced at the woman—it looked like she was smirking now, but it was hard to tell behind the mask. My face flushed with involuntary heat, and I found myself thinking I should know the answer to this one, too. “Uh … cats like sunbeams?” I offered.

“Good enough, buddy,” said the man, patting my knee. I recoiled a little, shifting uncomfortably. He didn’t seem to notice. “Next question: What color are your father’s eyes?”

Easy; same color as mine. Which was—…?

Suddenly it felt like the floor had yawned open beneath me, swallowing me like quicksand. Just remember Dad’s face. You remember what Dad looks like. It’s only been— How long had it been since I last saw him? It couldn’t have been that long; I was only … How old was I?

“Hey.” The man tapped my knee, startling me out of my head. “Do you have an answer for me?”

My voice came out weak. “N-No.” The woman jotted it down. “What’s going—?”

The man held up a hand, silencing me. “Just a couple more questions, alright? I know you’re confused, but it’s really important that we get this done.”

I took a deep breath, worrying the edge of my shorts between my fingers. I just had to play along, and then I’d get my answers. “Okay.”

He smiled, his eyes crinkling. “Okay. Can you tell me what this says?” He pulled a card out of his breast pocket; it had black text on it.

It took me longer to read than I expected, a long pause between each word. “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog?” Something about it sounded familiar. A children’s book, from the elementary school I didn’t remember? Seriously, how old was I? I had the sense that I wasn’t a child, but nothing about this conversation had given me any proof.

“Good!” He put away the card. “Now, just one last question: What is your name?”

And then the quicksand feeling was back, pulling me under so fast my guts twisted around themselves. My name. The single word that encapsulated my identity, represented me as I moved through the world; the first and last thing people knew me as.

I couldn’t remember it.

I didn’t notice the tear sliding down my cheek until the man reached forward and thumbed it away. I jerked back, my chest heaving with panic. He seemed not to notice, or he just didn’t care. “Thanks for being patient with us, buddy,” he said with a smile that was, again, probably meant to be reassuring. “The good news is, you’ve passed the assessment with flying colors.”

My eyes snapped up, wild. “What the fuck,” I hissed, “is going on?”

“I’m handler Chris,” he explained, “and that’s handler Jerusha. Today”—here, he gained the air of someone beginning a long-rehearsed spiel—“is the first day of your new life as a pet. You’ve chosen to have your memory wiped clean by Riantcorp so that you can begin anew as a beloved companion for someone who will cherish you for the rest of your life.” Then he paused, and he and the woman watched for my reaction.

I just stared at him. That didn’t sound right at all. Why would I ever choose this? What was the me from a few hours ago—the me I couldn’t remember being—even thinking? “N-No,” I said, shaking my head vehemently. “No. I want out.”

Chris tilted his head sympathetically, like he was talking to a dog who didn’t want to go to the vet. “Sorry, buddy, but no take-backs. I promise, it’s not as bad as it sounds. You don’t have to worry about a thing anymore. No real-world problems; just love and companionship. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“No!” I blurted, pressing against the wall. “I want my fucking memories back!”

He clicked his tongue. “Bud, you signed an unalterable contract with Riantcorp consenting to all of this.” Jerusha plucked a sheet of paper off the clipboard and flashed it at me. I couldn’t read it from this distance—and I might not have been able to read it at all—but I saw the scribble of a signature at the bottom. “And, unfortunately, the memory wipe procedure is irreversible. Why don’t we just—”

“What?” I shot to my feet, the blood draining my face. No, no, no—why was it irreversible? How the fuck was any of this legal?

Chris rose with me, pushing down on my shoulder. “Buddy, just sit back down and take a few deep breaths for me, will you?”

“No!” I tried to push past him, but he held out an unyielding, beefy arm to block my path. “Let me go!”

“You don’t want to do this.” His voice lowered, and he dipped his head to murmur in my ear. “You get one more chance to settle down, alright?”

I pulled back just enough to look him dead in the eye, my fists balled. “Fuck. You.”

The ZAP came out of nowhere, a hot white pain shooting from my ribs into my whole body. I doubled over, knees hitting the mat. When I looked up, blearily, Chris was standing over me with what looked like a cattle prod. “Down,” he growled, and I was startled enough at the change in tone that I obeyed. He glanced over his shoulder at Jerusha. “Write down ‘high risk’ as the designation.”

“Yessss!” Jerusha smirked behind her mask; I heard the scratch of pen on paper. “I told you—I know a box bastard when I see one.”

He hooked the cattle prod to his belt loop. I hadn’t noticed before, but both of them had quite a few things hanging from their belts. “That’s unprofessional,” he said pointedly, unhooking something different—a big loop made of nylon.

Jerusha rolled her eyes. “What, are you gonna write me up before you cough up the money you bet on it?”

He ignored her, instead kneeling in front of me. I recoiled into the corner, especially when I realized what the thing was: a collar. One with a buckle and a padlock. “Come on, buddy,” he coaxed. “Just let me put this on, and we’ll leave you to get settled in.”

The moment he put that thing on me, this would become real. I wouldn’t be able to convince myself that someone else would burst through that door and say Surprise! We were just fucking with you. You hit your head and lost your memory, but you’ll be all better soon. No, if Chris put that collar on me, then his story would be real, and I didn’t want to live in the reality where I’d betrayed myself like this.

In the end, it didn’t take him long to wrestle me facedown onto the mat and force the collar around my neck. At the click of the padlock, I pressed my forehead into the squishy foam and suppressed a sob. “There, good,” Chris said. He hooked two fingers through the collar, and my breath hitched before I realized he was just checking that there was enough wiggle room.

Then, to my surprise, he stroked his palm over my hair. Pinpricks of disgust crawled down my spine as he murmured, “You did good. You did good. I know this is hard, but the only way out is through. Okay?”

“Fuck you,” I whispered against the mat, “you fucking bastard.”

His weight lifted off my back. “Get some rest. We start tomorrow. Welcome aboard, trainee.”

Day 50

“Good morning, mon chou.”

Roux glares at him with one bleary, cracked-open eye. “Didn’t I tell you to cut this shit out?”

Ambrose smiles at them fondly, perched just beside their pillow. “Oh, but you’re so cute when you’re sleepy.” He ruffles their hair.

They jerk their head away and roll over, pulling the sheets up around their shoulders. “Fuck off,” they mutter.

Ambrose’s hand finds its way back to their fiery curls. They huff out a deep sigh and shut their eyes again.

Day 500

“Still asleep?”

Roux responds with only a muffled grunt. Carefully, Ambrose lifts their head in both hands and transfers them from the pillow onto his lap. They barely flutter an eyelash. “Aren’t you just precious?” Ambrose coos, petting their hair.

Roux’s eyebrow twitches. “Still. Sleeping,” he grumbles.

“Of course, my darling,” Ambrose whispers, and then falls blissfully silent. Roux presses their cheek to his thigh and dozes back off.

-

Ellie giggled. She still had one hand up to hold her bunny ears in place. “Silly!”

“Happy Easter, Noelle!” Joy appeared in the doorway, slightly more awake with her coffee in hand. She crossed over to the couch. “Did Daddy show you—?” Her smile dropped.

Beckett went still, his mind beginning to race. What was wrong this time? Did he put up the decorations wrong? Use a non-recycled filler for the grass in the Easter basket? He watched Joy glance between him and Ellie a few times. Finally, her gaze landed on him, a strained grin on her face. “Aren’t you a silly rabbit.” She booped his nose and yoinked the child-sized bunny ears off his head. “Did Daddy forget that pink is for girls and blue is for boys?”

Joy then took the oversized, still-falling-off baby blue rabbit ears off Ellie’s head. Ellie reached for them. “Noooo!” she protested. “Mine, Mommy!”

“No, it’s okay,” Joy soothed, “because you get this one instead.” She gingerly placed them on Ellie’s head, smoothing back her wispy blond hair. Ellie stuck her lip out in a pout, but the crease between Joy’s eyebrows had smoothed over. “Aww, you’re okay, baby girl. It’s just that Daddy was being silly and forgot which ones were yours.”

In an effort to seem complacent, Beckett put on the blue ears, even though Ellie was still staring mournfully at them. “Hey, c’mon, Ellie-belly,” he said, grabbing the basket off the couch. “We’re gonna go on an Easter egg hunt! Because the Easter Bunny left little treats allll over the house, and we’re going to go find them. I think there might be one over there—do you see it?”

He pointed at the trio of green and purple eggs he’d left right under the TV, and Ellie’s head swiveled. After a moment of hesitation, she went toddling after them. He let out a little exhale, glad her Easter wasn’t ruined over some bunny ears.

Joy’s hand landed on the back of his neck. “That,” she said, and then paused weightily, “went well. But I wish you wouldn’t forget the rules.”

A cold sweat crept beneath his shirt. “She just put them on,” he muttered. “I—I thought it was cute.”

Joy squeezed his tense muscles, then released her grip on him. “Well, don’t let her choose next time.”

Beckett frowned, watching Ellie gather up as many little plastic eggs as she could hold in her arms (which wasn’t very many). She should be able to choose whatever color bunny ears she wanted. She should have the whole color wheel at her disposal. Beckett knew, roughly, what had happened to Joy to make her think this way, but he still couldn't imagine why she had to put all of that on her three-year-old daughter. “Right,” he said, still looking at Ellie. “Okay.”

-