She stood with her head down, letting the water from the broad shower head strike her neck and run down her body. The temperature was just right, and the steam billowed around her. She relished the soothing feeling of the water drumming on her skin. It contrasted sharply with the numbness she felt inside. Her handler, standing outside of the shower, cleared his throat. Without any outward display of annoyance or anger, she began her routine. Soap, lather, rinse. Another "ahem" from outside the shower and she reached out and turned the water off. She stepped out of the shower and into the offered towel. She allowed herself to be dried and powdered, before moving to the makeup counter where her makeup and hair technicians stood ready. The next forty-five minutes were spent sitting absolutely still while the two took turns applying mousse, foundation, and other assorted cosmetics and hair products.
Behind them, her handler cleared his throat again and the two women stood back to admire their handiwork. One of them reached out to brush a stray hair from her face. She looked at the woman, eyes flat and distant, and the stylist blinked and looked away.
Her handler reached out a hand. She took it and allowed herself to be led into the huge walk-in closet. An outfit had already been decided upon, without her approval, and laid out. Three more helpers stood ready by the shimmering gown. She let the towel drop and stood with her arms raised. They began to stitch her into the gown. She allowed them to move her in whatever way was necessary to apply the garment. Like a marionette, she was turned, bent, twisted, and positioned. Finally, though, it was over. One of the women was on her knees, the high heels in her hands. She stepped into each one, then was led out of the closet by her handler. There were no mirrors; she didn't even know what she looked like anymore.
Her handler brought her into her main room where two more handlers held a coat and her clutch. She retrieved them and, with one in front and two behind, she was escorted from the room.
"Tonight is a political rally," her lead handler said. "You are to smile and provide your husband with the required amount of support and love. You know the main talking points. You will not stray from them." She nodded in affirmation. Her stomach was hollow. They reached the front door, where a security man stood ready to escort the four of them out. She was led to a limousine, where another security agent held the door open for them. Her handler slid in first, and she was next. The two other handlers and the security agent climbed in behind her.
The ride to the rally proceeded in silence. The windows had curtains drawn, so she couldn't see her reflection, much less the landscape as it slid by. Her gown was tight, forcing her to sit as erect as possible so that she could breathe properly. She didn't look left or right; she had examined her handlers for years, and she knew every wrinkle on his face better than she knew nearly anything else in her life. Her husband had chosen carefully; she had given up trying to subvert them years ago; they were unbreakable. She was not.
They must have reached their destination. She felt the gentle vibration of the engine cease, and the security agent opened the door and climbed out. Her lead handler exited, and then she was led out of the limo and hustled straight inside. "Please," she said suddenly, "I want to see my husband." Her handler froze. It was the first autonomous sentence she had spoken in years. "Please," she said again. Her handler looked closely at her. Unshed tears were shimmering in her eyes.
"You know that if you cry, you'll be punished," her handler said quietly.
"I won't cry," she lied. "I need to see my husband. Please. Just for a moment." Her handler stood there in the hallway, thinking. She clasped her hands together and held her breath. He was right; if she ruined her makeup she would be punished. He turned his back to her and spoke into his wrist. Cocked his head; listened. Turned to her in surprise.
"Okay, he'll see you," he said, disbelieving. He took her by the elbow and gently led her down another hallway. Two security agents stood outside of a door halfway down the hallway; they stood aside to let the four of them enter the room. She was led through the sitting room and into the office at the back. Her breath caught. There, behind the massive desk, was her husband. With a lean build and a face to which smiling came easy, his handsome good looks and natural charm had won over millions to his cause. Once upon a time, he had won her over, too.
He looked up from the tablet he was reading. Waved out her handlers, and after a moments thought, waved out the security agents, too. He smiled his broad, lopsided smile. "This is unusual," he said. She stood before him, her head down. She knew that if she looked him in the eye she wouldn't be able to do what she had come here to do. "Honey? Why are you here?"
"I am here because of you, Doug," she finally said. He raised an eyebrow. "I am here because you seduced me. You tricked me. You lured me here, to this spot." He sat back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. "You picked me because I am weak," she continued, "because I am malleable. No, not malleable; I was not remade. I was scooped out. You hollowed me out and replaced me with your thoughts. Your life. Your desires. You made me into this...this thing, this puppet. I am not your wife, I am your drone. Your robot." She was angry, now, and she took a step forward, leaning into her anger, her fists clenched, her face a mask of rage. "I have given you everything you want. I gave you a face to have next to yours. I gave you an arm to hold while you waved to 'your' people. I gave you a voice for support. I gave you my womb. You took my child, Doug. I haven't seen him in years. Is he even still alive?"
Her husband, at first surprised, now just looked annoyed. "We have another campaign to run," he said flatly, "and I will not let you ruin things. You are going back home. It is time to start medicating you again." He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. The door opened behind her and her handlers came into the room. She made her final move. Secreted in her clutch was a steak knife, stolen months ago from a dinner party. Sharp. Serrated. Big. She held it to her throat.
"Don't take another step," she hissed. Everybody froze in their tracks. Doug looked up, shock registering for the first time. "I will do it, I'll slice my throat right here. How will you spin that, huh, Doug?" She took a step for the doorway. "Move aside," she snarled. The three men backed away from the door. "You two out there, come in here where I can see you." When the security agents were lined up on the wall, she glanced back at Doug. "I am not your drone," she finally said, "and I am not your wife." She lowered the knife and walked out the door. Turned down the hallway, then turned again. Freedom was dead ahead, through the doors. She reached out, grasped the handle. Hesitated, then pushed and stepped outside.
