ungovernable

I’m Elena Bright, Professional Organizer. It’s my job to clean and keep my nose clean. When I say professional, I mean it. I’ve worked for anyone who’s anyone. Just last week, I alphabetized Brenda Leigh’s sock drawer. Yes, that Brenda Leigh. And, yes, all of her socks are black. Ugh, so classy. 

I’m telling you this because I trust you. Also, because who’s left to get me in trouble? I wasn’t always like this. I used to be afraid of my government. Before that, I believed in my government. Looking back, I don’t know which I regret more.

I have about one million places that this story could start in. I could take you back to my childhood and make you earn the truth. I could jump into the action. But, really, who doesn’t love exposition? I’ll be starting my retelling right when I get hired to my most important job to date.

I got the text on a Friday.

The beige sun bared into my room. The walls were blank. Every wall was blank. In every home. Had I, Elena, been into every home? No. But that was the law. No colors, music, books, or flavorful food, nothing.

Of course, I, Elena, didn’t know any different. I was happy in my beige world where nothing ever happened. People died of old age in my world. There were no guns. No diseases. No famine. Not allowing us to live was a real lifesaver. And, we had our government to thank for it.

They set the rules of living. How many kids you could have, who was to marry whom, and where they would live, your job; basically, every scary decision that you could get wrong? They made it for you. And everyone knows that they are right, so no one objects. They do what they are told, and in turn, they are happy.

“Are you Kenmar’s organizational master?” the text read.

Not a completely unusual text for me. I get lots of clients on refer methods, that’s how i got Kenmar! So, I replied: “That’s me.” Building a report already!

I got the job, as I do, and slipped into my usual questions. How large is the space? What size boxes are provided?

There’s a knock at my door.

My heart leaps. It’s never done before. Hearts typically stay in their carefully curated place in my world. I’ve opened a hundred doors before! So, why am I shaking? Should I just leave it closed?

My hand is on the doorknob, and I pull it open. There stands the Vice President, Madame Ebba Cornwallis.

We stare.

“Where is your bag?” She asks me.

“Bag?” I echo. God, I’m so stupid. Wake up!

“You took the job. I’ve come to collect my new organizational guru.” Ebba catches the door with a gloved hand. White glove. Beige purse. Black pantsuit. So many colors. And on the Vice President, no less. She steps into my home and stands at the foot of the steps as I pack. She stares around the room, but doesn’t move.

Now I don’t know what’s happening. Uncharted waters are not something you face every day as a professional. I throw outfit after beige outfit into my backpack. I throw in my label maker, my laptop, and all of the shoes I own in the bag. I fix a small flash drive concealed as a gold bar around my neck and grab my mother’s ring from my dresser.

With a curt nod to the room, I close the door.

We load into her car, Ebba and I. It is a gaudy affair, bright silver as it is. I am fine with the job, but riding in this… thing is an embarrassment.

I don’t typically ride in cars; they’re not safe as I like things to be. I prefer to be able to walk. I can fully control my own two feet. That’s how I prefer my world to be; in my control.

The outside of Ebba’s house was a lot. It was a big house with actual windows that opened, not just glass in the wall. It had a front and back door, and two floors. And, the exterior was yellow. Unmistakably yellow.

She set me up in her pantry to start. One thousand colors greeted me. The smells were enough to make anyone vomit. I mean, who has all of this stuff?! No one has this much stuff in the entire world. It was unsettling to have no blank space. No quiet.

I turned away from the sight, absolutely overwhelmed. I closed my eyes and saw the mismatched boxes in the vibrant, little green room.

When I opened my eyes, I saw the living room. Blue couches, curtains, rugs, blankets in every shade! What the fuck is this woman?! She’s an alien. Where did she get the material? Was it made for her? God, this place must have cost her a fortune.

I didn’t realize our government was so rich.

I sprinted back into the beige sun on my world.

I breathed in the unperfumed air.

I could feel the massive migraine building in the back of my head.

I made sure no one could see me and moved to the outside of her hedges. I took deliberate steps down the driveway, pulling out my phone and talking to an imaginary “Terry”. Once safely around the backside of her house, I stuck my fingers down my throat.

Once I had purged the toxins, I took a deep breath. I reached into my bag and got my roll of paper towels, which are much more absorbent than tissues, and wiped my mouth.

I threw my roll back in my bag and marched myself back to the house. The list formed itself in my head. I can’t do anything about the color assault, but I can sure as shit find some order to put them in.

A movement caught my eye. I looked up to the second floor of the house. As if that alone wasn’t odd, there stood Ebba with a glass of what I can only guess is blood. What else is that color? Who drinks blood?

As she sipped her blood, a slight smile crept up her face.

It was a test. I had to purge.

I had passed. I knew I would.

I could feel a smirk climbing onto my face and quickly shook it away. I didn’t like the feeling. A glance back up saw her down her blood and lick the glass. The image sent a chill down my spine, but my face was the brick it was raised to be.

I opened the door of the pantry, my label maker at the ready. Lab rat or not.