☀|v(s)

Time management: the act or process of planning and exercising conscious control over the amount of time spent on specific activities, especially to increase effectiveness, efficiency or productivity.

Venus had designed a self-serving “task list,” divided into segments of one hour during which one specific activity would be prioritized. It was the most efficient way to ensure a balance between luxury activities, household duties, and work-related business. Yet lately the responsibilities had been accumulating like cars during rush hour, stalking his very shadow until he was buried nose deep in pressure. Despite his efforts in time management, he couldn’t resist the urge to spend an extra hour in his personal gym. It simply felt as if he couldn’t function mentally without the extra tension release. He knew relaxation was crucial to his mental health, but responsibility was a worthy opponent. It would always reign supreme.

He was fully aware that this “pile up” was a phase, and soon the workload would decrease significantly. The end of a project was an open window to a new road of opportunities, but in the meantime there were chores that were being neglected. He couldn’t clean an entire mansion on his own. He also couldn’t stand the possibility of allowing filth to accumulate anywhere. With Vepar’s help, he could make decent progress in a day’s time, but it was no surprise to discover his brother’s stubborn refusal. Instead, he had made the suggestion of hiring a maid.

Venus considered the proposal, only to discover more drawbacks than advantages. Hiring a maid required posting an advertisement, finding somebody trustworthy and efficient – who would not break confidentiality, especially regarding Vepar’s medication and peculiar “history” – delivering a mutually agreed upon salary, and the painstaking process of background checks, interviews, and other such trials. It seemed like a hassle more than anything, but his twin brother was stubborn. He would rather bury himself in literature than lift a finger to clean their own house, not that Venus would hold a grudge. He realized not everything could be handed to him on a silver platter. Wealthy or not, there was still plenty of sweat to be shed.

In the midst of his research, he stumbled upon a farfetched idea that wasn’t so farfetched when brought to light. In fact, Vepar was friendly to the idea the moment he brought it up.

An Avox.

No salary, no hiring process, and no need to test whether they were trustworthy. They had to be, or else they could be returned and/or punished. It was their duty to obey like a servant. There were plenty of bedrooms to spare, and food and hydration wouldn’t be an issue. It would also be a nice change of pace, having a fresh face to greet around the house.

After Vepar’s approval, he looked up the best Avox pens to visit in the Capitol, and reserved a Sunday to commence the search. Venus knew what he was looking for, generally speaking. Somebody poise, well-nourished, well-postured, strong, and obedient. The ones who stood alert at their cages were the ones he inspected the most.

Vepar’s methods, however, differed from his.

There were no reasons behind his rejections. ”How about that one?” Venus would suggest, gesturing to a gently-mannered Avox, already dressed professional as if hand-crafted for the job. But Vepar would simply glance over them and say ”No, not that one.” The urge to ask why stuck to the back of his throat, but he knew it was an empty argument waiting to happen. They needed to agree, so if Vepar didn’t want a particular Avox, he didn’t want it, simple as that. It was easier to move on without question.

At the fourth pen, Venus was teetering on the edge of patience. He wanted badly to end their search before sundown, so the Avox could settle in time for dinner and a tour of the house. A man named Adam greeted them inside. Rows of the well-maintained enclosures were at the front, and Venus was impressed with what he saw.

”I have to check something.” Vepar suddenly said, ”I'll be right there, keep him talking.”

Again, he didn’t question the behavior.

Their exchanges were pleasant enough. A business deal was on its way, judging by the progress they were making. Venus just had to narrow down the selection and check for Vepar’s approval. There was no predicting that last crucial part, but he would try anyhow. That was the point of the trip, after all. To find somebody suitable and make a purchase.

Then he heard Vepar’s unmistakable excitement echoing from an unexplored corridor. He claimed there was an Avox perfect for them. His curiosity spiked.

His brother was beaming at a small figure balled up at the back of a cage, knees to his chest, with a refusal to stand alert like the other Avoxes. His physical condition seemed decent, by his own standards, though his view of the body was severely limited. The face was pleasant enough, which was welcoming, but his expression was questionable. Quite a few things were questionable, actually. Why was his bowl of oatmeal untouched? A refusal to eat was an indicator of unfavorable health. Why was he huddled? The act screamed disobedience, or perhaps he didn’t care.

That was not the type of Avox he wanted. So why was Vepar so entranced? Was there a detail he had missed? Something extraordinary he knew about this Avox that Venus didn’t?

”Why him?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the uniformed figure.

"Because, Venus, I know he is the perfect choice for us." I cross my arms across my chest as tight as I can manage, slight pout tugging at the bottoms of my lips. Because I do not care if he good at cleaning or being a slave, he looks like good company. Venus won't understand that, I'm not naive enough to believe any different. "I just... I know okay?" my words are a gentle sort or irritated as I hope to inform Venus of how unwilling I am to yield on this decision without stomping my feet and looking like the spoiled child I am.

The man with the awful name approaches, mouth open wide as though he is about to spew something that I already do not care for. "He's not a good choice..." as if the man who has just met us knows the first thing about what's good for us. Hostility prickles the back of my neck as I work to hide a curled lip behind my gloved palm. I can feel the gunshots in my chest, rattling around my ribs as I listen to his words without taking in a single syllable.

I'm already bored with his excuses.

I turn my back to him, eyes resting on the small, sad thing in front of me. He's scared, downright terrified I'd say. His knuckles are white with strain, body tense and poised to run although I suppose there is nowhere to go in a prison like this. The mere sight of such a withered human forces pins and needles into my arms, sticking out in the most obvious of ways. I'm not good at hiding my emotions like Venus.

That is why he's the business man, that is why he deals with people like Adam who I decide upon a whim I despise simply because of the churning in my gut whenever my eyes fall upon the fellow. I'm sure he's a perfectly decent person, I just refuse to believe as much.

Why?

Why not?

My movements are calculated, trying to appear calm in every soft step taken towards the boy huddled in a prison much too small. He doesn't have to be scared, not of me or of Venus and I need him to know that. It's not a matter of want.

The approval of others has always mattered so much to me. Once upon a time I threw my life away to earn a half-hearted hug and a stale kiss from a woman who never loved me, only what I could do. She loved the fame that two genius boys brought, she loved the attention. Not her boys, probably not even our father. The condolence cards we received from her book club were more genuine than my tears at her funeral. But I cried anyway because that is what a good son would do.

(But I wince hard at the screeching that has begun to ring in my ears.) (Say sorry Vepar, say sorry you can't mean that!) But I'm not sorry. I never was.

The nightmares in which I am the one pressing a gun to my mothers temple, feeling the cold metal weigh down delicate fingers, feeling the recoil push me back so violently that I see white, is almost pleasant. Freeing. I gave up trying to convince myself that I did not enjoy that dream a long, long time ago.

I lower myself to the Avox's level, sitting cross legged upon cold cement and rubbing at leather-clad wrists nervously. I want him to like me, as ridiculous as that may seem, it matters so fucking much that my heart aches and my head spins. "Hello..." my voice shakes, mirroring the lungs that force quivering breaths from between my lips. (Please don't hate me. I won't hurt you just please don't hate me.) "Ah hello, I..." my voice trails off once more, embarrassment at my apparent inability to form a complete sentence sending swarms of blood up to my cheeks.

My eyes are planted so intently on my shoes that I think a flower might start growing soon enough. A rose painted black. "Sorry I'm just... so nervous, you know? Are you cold? You're shaking. Here take this." I slide a brightly colored sweater over my head, trying not to care that it messed up my hair and left my shirt wrinkled. He won't care about that, at least I don't think.

I cannot look at him, not even as I slide the cloth between the bars and set it at his feet.

Brighter colors would look better on him anyhow, opposed to the dreadfully dull suit he currently adorns. I just hope he agrees.

They argue with each other; they always do. We see it again and again here. Some people fight over their choice because it's important. Other people walk in and buy groups of Avox, pointing at us as if choosing flowers in a flower shop. They're always looking for bright pinks and yellows, beautiful blooms with soft, healthy petals.

Those of us confined to the back of the warehouse rarely get chosen and for good reason. Most of the Avox surrounding my cage are disfigured with scars given unto them by their great and powerful master. If it isn't obvious by the scars then the way that we stand in this section should say it all. The Avox around me stare straight ahead, hands behind their back, expressionless as I am meant to be. We have something in common beyond what those Avox in the front have. We have lives filled with pain and fear. We have been maimed and tortured. Speech is not required to convey that.

There's a silent air to us that is heavy, thicker than the silence that we hold. It rests on our shoulders, it weighs us down. We are left to ourselves, rarely seeing the light of day. The food given to us is more of a consideration than a command to eat. Like dogs in pens, if we reach the point where we have been here for too long, we will surely be put down, hopefully gently. It won't be unwelcome, not to some.

I am undecided.

I just want to see the forest again.

If I shut my eyes I can recall it in perfect detail. I've always had that talent. It's what got me into this mess what feels like one hundred years ago and a day. My Grandmother showed me endless plans and sheets full of names, telling me to memorize them so that she could destroy the papers. I'm a walking encyclopedia for a revolution that will never continue.

I have all that information still, filed away in the back of my head. It's useless to me now. I prefer to think about things that are important.

I decide that the violet-voiced boy reminds me of trees. He stands tall, straight, strong. Steady and altogether there. His words are clipped, to the point. I imagine him with roots growing deep down into the earth, everything he is, is strong, like a wooden floor that has held the weight of a house for three hundred years. He is rigid.

The creamy-yellow voiced boy with the dark colours inside is staring at me.

I stare back, unblinking, fingers digging into the fabric of my pants. I don't like the way his eyes are soft. It makes tears gather at the back of my eyes. He looks at me like I am something sweet and small, something broken. I do not like to be looked at like I am broken. I know what I am. I don't like that he seems to know that too.

He steps forward and I press myself further into the back of the cage on instinct. The movement is subtle but perhaps it's noticeable. He moves slower still and I watch him creep towards me. Half of me wants to move to the other side of the cage. The other half stays perfectly still, certain that there will be punishment if I move despite the fact that I am safe in this cage. No one can reach me and the door is locked.

My breathing quickens as he comes to my side of the cage and lowers himself down to my level. I lower my gaze quickly, fear making my movements sharp, almost painful. I clutch my knees tightly, eyes widening. The last time anyone was this close to me that I was aware, Nathanial was putting a cream on the eye that he had just blackened.

My head feels light, like I might faint.

He doesn't speak for a moment and I can hear Adam in the background speaking to the violet-voiced-tree-one. He tells him that I come from an abusive master, that I am skittish and prone to hiding, that I am dutiful but seemingly not very bright.

It's because I cannot write or read.

I only ever learned how to memorize squiggles and shapes, not how to use them.

Creamy-yellow-syrupy thick-vibrant-painfully bright sweater-one speaks finally, a soft hello.

I don't react. I am not certain that I'm allowed to. They haven't told me the rules yet. Nathanial had a lot of rules and he was always making up new ones. I was never certain if I was breaking one or not sometimes. I began to stay still, to freeze.

Emotions were not allowed, speaking to other Avox was not allowed, crying was not allowed, breathing was not allowed.

So I sit still and I shake.

His voice goes a faded mustard as he fidgets nervously beside me. I tense slightly, nervous and afraid but I risk a quick glance by staring out of the corner of my eyes before averting my gaze again.

He is staring at his shoes and I can see the beginnings of a natural hair colour at the roots of him, he is wearing a painting on his head.

Adam is telling the tree one about how I don't know how to read and I stiffen. Sometimes I think that Adam thinks that I do not hear either. He doesn't notice my small reactions to his words, most people never do. I had to make them small to keep Nathanial from punishing me.

"Here, take this."

The one with the roots growing from his skull pushes his colourful clothing thorough the cage bars and I stop breathing for a moment, trying not to react as his hand comes near me, certain that he will hit me. It is always painful when they bring their hands near me.

He does not hit me.

His clothing sits soft and woolly on the cage floor and despite myself I am curious. Nathanial had sweaters that he'd dress me in sometimes, like he was playing with a doll. They were always itchy and sometimes wet and uncomfortable. He liked to see how I would react.

This sweater looks soft and has wispy little tendrils escaping the knitted rows like sunflowers looking to sunlight.

The sweater has held my gaze for a solid minute before I glance up to see if he's watching me. He is not, eyes on his shoes.

The tree one is speaking with Adam.

Adam is not watching me.

My hand snakes out and wraps around the arm of the sweater and I tug it slowly into my lap, having learned long ago that quick movement grabs very much unwanted attention. I slide it across the floor at a snail's pace, one arm trailing behind the torso forlornly.

When I have the bulk of it, I can already feel the difference. My knees are warm.

I push my face into the wool, and feel the softness against my face, enjoying it much more than the scratchy brambly feeling uniform I have so often been tucked into. The softness is a soft blue and with the softness comes darkness, warm and good. I hug the sweater into me, leeching it's warmth for myself.

The world becomes muffled and far away from me.

My shoulders relax.

The shaking stops.

A checklist of defects mapped into his conscience led his gaze to the timid subject under study. He was hesitant to touch the sweater, let alone claim it to keep himself warm. According to the salesmen, his previous master had been abusive. It had never occurred to him that a master would take the time to physically harm their own servant. It was brutish and counterproductive, but there were corrupt minds in the world. There were sadists, sociopaths, brain concoctions made from rotten genetics and horrific upbringings that coerced humans into performing animalistic crimes that could be “excused” by an Avox’s slave status. It was a reminder of how the world was in eternal winter – cold and borderline unbearable.

There was an ancient form to science that always brought ethics into consideration. He enjoyed those articles, all stuffed away in dusty old journals. Those faded standards reminded him that humanity was human. There was something sweet about reading them and telling himself what he was, what everyone was. Avoxes included. The ones without humanity would be arrested during those ancient times. Now an abuse of practice was the norm, no longer considered abuse by the majority. It simply happened.

An Avox “skittish and prone to hiding,” was not surprising, given his background. It was vague, but the adjective “abusive” itself was a connotation of misery, suffering, fear, repression, and a number of other discomforting words. One word specifically – traumatized – latched to his brain. He glanced at Vepar, the image of his gore-splattered clothes from that night flashing behind his eyes. In a sense, Vepar was prone to those behaviors. Not quite like a cat seeking shelter, but someone who sought a distraction. Literature binges were his favorite.

The problem with fear was that fearful animals were the most dangerous. A cornered snake would coil and strike; a frightened spider would bite and inject its venom. This was something to take into consideration. He didn’t want to endanger himself or his brother.

Then the Avox slid his brother’s sweater into his lap, a bright splash of color upon his bland uniform. Venus witnessed his trembling cease.

Danger was an insensitive assumption. Comparing him to a cornered animal would deeply upset Vepar, and oppose the uplifting spirits he felt when reading those withering articles about informed consent of participants, of the reassurance that they would not be harmed or manipulated. He couldn’t forget the humanity of it. The Avox was human, and he was afraid. He had to take that into consideration as well.

He pondered the idea of an Avox who couldn’t read or write. He didn’t plan on asking him to proofread his papers. The downside wasn’t substantial. It could be worked around. In fact, should it end up posing a serious problem, Venus could teach him both skills. Teaching was one of his passions, it was evident in his career as a tribute trainer during Games season, and fitness trainer during off season. He figured he could teach the basics at the very least.

Damn. He was thinking as if the matter had already been decided. There was plenty to be discussed, and he still lacked Vepar’s participation. All he could say was how perfect the Avox was, how he was the “right one” for no valid reason. Venus could perhaps see the appeal in how cutesy he looked. Was that his reason? He supposed owning an attractive Avox was a pleasant perk, but it also posed as a potential distraction. The priority was his cleaning ability, not his face. Yet Adam had also mentioned that he was dutiful. That was one of the most important qualities, the one he had been searching for. If he was obedient, then he was suitable.

He trained his eyes on the Avox and studied him, mind swinging like a pendulum from one decision to the other. Back and forth, yes or no, risk the trouble or not. Vepar finally stood up to join him, but wobbled uncharacteristically and insisted on leaving as soon as possible with the brand new Avox under their arms. He had hoped Vepar would take his medication for such a crucial day. An episode would interrupt their search, except now it was an unintentional weapon forcing Venus into a split-second decision he didn’t want to make. However, he would never force his brother to stay somewhere he didn’t want to. Now it was imperative that they left as soon as possible, so Vepar could be offered some relief.

"Okay," he sighed, ”We’ll take him.”

Venus has always been my big brother. Our age difference is counted by the second, and I suppose calling Venus older simply because his breaths came five minutes before my own is a bit arbitrary, but I don't care. He takes care of me; he looks out for his younger, unstable little brother who won't stay on his medication simply because he can and whom makes decisions solely on a whim. He is the eye of my storm, the only thing I have been able to rely on for twenty-three long years.

I've never understood how brothers could grow apart. Of course I have seen it, it seems a common part of life. I have heard my coworkers complaining about their lazy siblings and their do-nothing cousins. They despise those whose blood boils the same blue color. Whose skin are made of the same fabric and whose touch is as familiar as a mother's. Perhaps I am mad, completely insane, but at least I appreciate the gifts we are given.

My head comes to rest upon Venus' shoulder, ragged breaths turning steady as I bury my nose in a familiar jacket. He smells of hard work, a kind of bitter-sweet scent, embedded in his skin through hours of working and training. He smells warm, like a winter spent under a blanket in front of a fireplace purring and cackling softly. My brother smells of home and it calms my racing heart in mere milliseconds. Sometimes I wonder if Venus realizes just how much I need him. I hope he does.

"Okay." I can feel his body vibrate as words escape his lips, "We'll take him."

I smile into his shoulder but I do not move. The world is still a haze of colors, of blood dripping off a department store window and of red ants scurrying down a bathroom drain. For just a second I think that I can feel them crawling under my skin once more. I would scream if not for the gag that mother seems to be stuffing into my mou-

There is gentle pressure on my shoulder, somehow strapping my feet back to the floor and stopping the world from falling to pieces around me. There is another small, sad thing. They hold out a colorful, soft thing and I must blink at a few times before I register that it is the sweater I gave to the avox. Our avox. "Oh... no..." I mumble, taking it absent-mindedly into shaking hands. "This is... this is his..." My words fade into the blackness as the other small, sad thing walks away. Where is our avox going, I wonder. Perhaps they are taking that dreadful costume off of him. I'd like that.

The dreadful man with the stupid name is speaking of a return policy. Like we are buying a car that has been well-worn, like we have a right to return a person for not living up to our standards. I'm not stupid. I'm really not. I know that they think of him as such, a soulless, stupid thing just like the monstrous metal skeleton that we sit within, but just because they think it doesn't make it right. It's disgusting.

I can feel my body tense, nails digging into my palms without my permission. I'd like to punch this smug son of a bitch in the face, I think. His voice is annoying, like bees drilling through my skull and into my brain, picking out pieces to take back to the hive. More and more and more they take, until I am a bloody mess. I want to hit him, I want to throw him against the wall and pluck his eyes out with my fingers so that he can understand the pain. My pain.

A few deep breaths and I am free of the fire that was so hot not even a minute ago. It's okay now, it's okay.

They usher our small, sad thing back into the room and I do not skip a beat. I turn on the spot, feeling as though I am walking through jelly as I drape the sweater over his shoulders. "It's yours. Your sweater."

It's so hard to act put together when I am falling apart inside. "Venus, the car? Now? Please?"

It'll be okay soon. I know it will.