Virtuous

I’ll always remember what they told me; Patience is a virtue. I heard that phrase a thousand times as a kid. A thousand more growing up. I’ve heard it enough throughout my life that I could parrot it in my sleep. But, what they failed to tell me, was patience breeds complacency. And complacency makes you accommodating.

I tried setting boundaries at first. I did. That first week, I even tried to confront them about that smell. Agonizingly sweet, like overripe pears muddled with overturned earth. I swore it followed me – clung to me even – like a ghost. Yet, I stood outside that unfortunate, frigid door and knocked. The silence that followed was thick. Expectant. Heavy enough to make my teeth ache. I eventually got an answer. Less with words and more with a feeling that pressed against my skull like icy fingers. I understood well enough. Boundaries were only a fantasy They’d allowed me. For a while.

They made it clear that They had needs. Unique, specific ones – freshness, portion, temperature. It's hard to predict what they'll want on any given day. It makes grocery runs more like grueling marathons. Of course, it took time to learn those preferences. Trial and error; mostly error to start. I like to think I’ve gotten better by now. They weren’t always as patient with my mistakes as I was patient with Their demands. But there's only so much you can do about a picky eater.

They’ve been here longer than I have, a veteran of the space. So I always felt it rude to confront them about their preferences. Though, They keep odd hours. Naturally, I’ve adjusted my schedule accordingly. Why bother asking them to accommodate me when I already know They can’t. I don’t sleep much, the sounds in the night were jarring at first – but now just part of the night. White noise, almost. It did take a bit of time to get used to, but who hasn’t dealt with a noisy neighbor or two?

Normal routines are something I find myself missing in passing. Eight hours of sleep, coffee in the morning, gym on Tuesdays. Dinner with friends. I can’t remember the last time someone called to check on me. Or maybe they did and I didn’t answer. The phone stays off now anyways. Easier that way, I guess. Although sometimes I try to recall my mother’s face. I can’t. Not now, anyways.

I have a new schedule now, in a way. The parameters They set for me, at the times They’ve chosen. I’ve already learned well not to deviate from the task given to me. Or question it. Occasionally, though, I allow myself a moment to wonder what would’ve been different if I’d refused the first few times. If I’d said no and stood for the boundaries I set. It’s too late now. I was patient then. But now I was cooperative. Tonight would be another showcase of that cooperation.

I can feel Them in that doorway behind me. Watching. Waiting. But I don’t look anymore. I know better. They don't need to remind me. They haven’t for some time now. I remember. I always remember now.

It’s all methodical, like artisan craftwork. The trunk, the route, the timing – all memorized, second nature. I know which streets stay quiet after dark, which ones have blind spots. My hands stay steady as I work. They used to shake, I remember that, for what it's worth. That first time – gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles went pale. Now there's just…efficiency. The third time, I got it wrong. Wrong temperature I think. Or maybe wrong timing. It doesn’t matter now. But then, it mattered.

They didn’t eat for three days. Three days of the house getting colder – three days of the walls pressing in more and more. Breathing deeper and heavier with every moment. And that sound – not quite screaming, yet not quite anything – it came from that room relentlessly. I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t call for help. Who would I call? Who would I turn to? On the fourth day, They forgave me. I felt that forgiveness like a fever breaking. And I was careful to never make that mistake again.

Now, I have the criteria. The timing, the complacency – the practice. They need to be alone, isolated. I’ve gotten good at spotting the patterns: late shifts, headphones, the shortcuts through empty lots. I tell myself I’m just assisting – only aiding in something that would happen regardless. Staying prepared and being helpful. But I can’t lie, that trunk is opened before I’ve even made the decision. That’s muscle memory now.

I’ve timed it perfectly, as I should. The park at this hour is always barren. It’s only as I pull into the lot that my reflection catches in the rearview mirror. My face, illuminated by those dull streetlamps, that's still mine. My eyes are still mine. But something behind them isn’t? Or maybe it was? Is? Maybe only when the light catches just right. But that’s normal, isn’t it? People change.

It doesn’t take long now. Muscle memory, routine; whatever it is, I don’t focus on the details. That same sweet-rot scent settles into the lining of my car, the medley of fermentation and soil. I buy air fresheners by the case. Vanilla, Lavender, Pine. It doesn’t matter. The smell always finds its way through. I catch myself not even noticing it at all, and that’s worse somehow, I think. No matter what, that trunk lid always closes with a soft click, and the drive home is always filled with that same terrible silence.

I’ve never opened it after that click. Not once, not even in the beginning. I don’t need to. When I return home – return that trunk to that wretched room – I know They’re satisfied. I can feel it in the way the house settles, the way the cold recedes back into the walls. I’m tired. But it’s earned. The kind of tired that comes from a job well done. I’m beyond the days of fighting it. I used to, before I couldn't tell which thoughts were mine and which weren’t. I can still remember that feeling, just barely now. Distant, only a memory. It holds no meaning anymore.

This is what I am now. Or maybe what I’ve always been. Just on the cusp of being. I realize now that They’ve been patient with me too, in their own way. Teaching me. Guiding me. They taught me better – taught me my place. And I should thank Them for it. I’ll always remember what They told me; Patience is a virtue.