Sixteen - The Machine
SIXTEEN
THE MACHINE
I FINISH brUSHING my teeth, the bristles scraping against enamel in perfect rhythm. Left to right. Top to bottom. Inside, outside. Circular motions on the molars. The routine doesn’t vary.
I move to the dresser. A small cocktail umbrella sits propped against the mirror, green paper curled at the edges.
From Kellan’s going-away party. Lena insisted I keep it as a reminder that “everything green is good for health, blue is yucky and wrong.” She was referring to the drink colors debate. No one won.
My fingers close around the thin paper and wooden sticks. I crush it in my palm, feeling the spokes snap. The trash can is three steps to the right. I drop the crumpled mass inside .
The desk drawer slides open with minimal resistance. Inside, the braiding kit Rey gave me. “For when you’re ready to fancy up that beast,” she said, handing it over with that half-smile of hers. The leather case contains metal pulling hooks, rubber bands in various colors, a small comb.
I lift it out, place it in the trash can on top of the umbrella. The weight makes a proper thud against the plastic bin.
The closet door doesn’t squeak when I open it.
The maintenance here is good, efficient.
Inside, among my shirts, is Eli’s towel.
He lent it to me after we got caught in the rain a month ago.
It’s worn, the blue stripe along the edge faded to almost nothing, the nap rough from countless washes.
I take it, the fabric unfolding in my hands, draping unevenly.
I refold it, aligning the corners, pressing each crease with my thumbs.
Tighter. Neater. Better. I’ll leave it by his door tomorrow.
The painting above the bed is slightly askew.
A landscape, nothing special. Rolling hills, a fence line, horses in the distance.
It tilts a fraction to the left. My hands reach up, fingers adjusting the frame with precision.
I step back and assess. Still wrong. I return, shift it back half as much to the right.
Step back again. Better. The angles align with the wall now. The room appears more balanced.
The desk requires attention next. I retrieve the microfiber cloth from my toiletry kit.
The surface first—circular motions, removing dust and fingerprints.
Then the edges, the corners, the underside of the lip where dust collects unseen.
I move the lamp, clean beneath it, replace it in the exact same position.
The pens go in the drawer. The notebook too, and the spare charging cable, coiled neatly.
The desk becomes a blank surface, impersonal. Perfect.
Now the bed. I pull the fitted sheet taut, checking for wrinkles.
The elastic corners snap into place. The flat sheet follows, aligned perfectly with the head of the mattress.
I form hospital corners at the foot of the bed, folding the sheet at a precise ninety-degree angle before tucking it under the mattress.
The blanket lays flat, no bunching. The pillowcases are freshly washed.
I fluff each pillow twelve times before inserting it into its case. The bed is hotel-perfect now.
The bedside table drawer requires the most attention.
It’s where things accumulate. Debris. Evidence.
I pull it open and remove everything, placing the items in ordered rows atop the nightstand.
Tissues go back in the drawer. Standard room issue.
The notepad, likewise. Room amenities are not personal effects.
I go through the rest. A half-roll of mints, already opened.
The wrapper crinkles as I pick it up and toss it in the bin.
A sticky note with Kellan’s artwork—what he claimed was a “panda-llama hybrid, the perfect spirit animal for you, bro.” The ink has smudged from handling. It joins the mints in the trash.
At the bottom of the pile sits the folded construction paper.
I unfold it carefully, smoothing the creased corners with my thumb.
The paper has softened from handling, the once-sharp edges now worn.
The bay horse stands in the center, disproportionate legs and an oversized head, typical of a child’s perception.
The blocky figures on either side are simply circular heads atop stiff bodies and rectangular limbs, arrows pointing to identify them. Thunderbolt. Zane. Cassian Vale.
The colors have remained vibrant. Brown for the horse.
Green for the grass. Light blue for the sky.
A yellow sun in the corner with rays extending outward like spikes.
The handwriting is uneven, each letter varying in size.
The exclamation point after “You’re the best!
” extends below proper alignment, the dot a small circle rather than a point.
I examine each element methodically. The proportions. The colors. The spatial relationship between the figures. The quality of the lines. The pressure applied to create darker and lighter areas. Analysis complete .
I fold the paper along its original creases. Once in half. Again in half. The paper becomes a smaller rectangle in my palm. I hold it for exactly four seconds.
Then tear it across the center.
The sound is clean, decisive. The two halves drop from my fingers into the trash can, landing on top of the other discarded items. My foot nudges the waste basket back under the desk, aligning it with the leg.
I remove my clothes, fold them, place them on the chair before turning off the lights. The sheets are cool against my skin as I lie down. The mattress gives slightly under my weight. I arrange my body in the optimal sleeping position—on my back, arms at my sides, head centered on the pillow.
I don’t close my eyes. It’s 12:27 AM.
Sleep doesn’t come. This is expected. My body remains still. Breathing continues. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Steady. Rhythmic. Automatic.
I catalog the sounds—the central air cycling on and off, my breaths, the linens rustling as my chest rises and falls. All normal. All expected.
I shift position. Left arm under the pillow. Right arm along my side. This is a sleep position often used in the past. Perhaps it will be equally effective now. Breathing continues.
Eyes still open. It’s 1:34 AM.
Moonlight seems brighter. More time has passed. I return to my back. Stare at the ceiling again. Recenter on the pillow.
Begin again. It’s 2:04 AM.
There is no frustration. Frustration requires expectation. I expect nothing. Sleep will come or it won’t. The body will rest or it won’t. Performance will continue regardless. The brand demands nothing less.
Still awake. Still breathing. The process continues without interruption. The machine functions as designed, performing its programmed operations until external forces initiate the next sequence.
I breathe in for four. Hold for seven. Release for eight.
The body continues working. The mind remains empty. It’s 2:46 AM.
The machine waits for further instructions.