Holy Shit, that hurt!
One punch to Maggie’s gut, and I was writhing in agony on the bottom of the pool. “My thumb,” I wailed, “oh, my GOD! My THUMB!”
She looked down at me and said, “You did it wrong.”
No kidding.
“Just turn off the neural receptors to that hand.”
“Oh, yeah.” I did as she suggested. “Duh.”
Instantly, like magic, the pain went away. As I lay on the bottom of the deep end, I could finally appreciate the towering scale of the white castle around me. To my left, the sun rose over a long, three-story bower—the lady’s chambers. Straight ahead, the picturesque grand palace awaited. It stood five-stories tall and had pennant-topped pinnacles and steep gables like the magic castle at Disney World. Finally, to my right, a two-story stone building mirrored the bower. The knight’s house held our library.
“Fight’s over.” Maggie offered me a hand and helped me to my feet. “At least for now.”
“Thank goodness. Why’d you want me to punch you anyway?”
“The way we fight reveals everything about us.”
“It does? I always judged women by their desserts.”
“Well, I don’t bake.”
I pointed at the blood trickling from a cut near her belly button and asked, “Did I do that?”
She looked down and nodded. “Your ring did.”
“I’m sorry, Maggie.”
“Don’t be. Scars are the best evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“Of a life lived hard,” she said. “Now let’s get you patched up.”
“I could use some first aid.” I cradled my injury in my good hand and followed Maggie out of the empty swimming pool. Then, much to my surprise, she led me up the stone staircase in front of the knight’s house. “This is farther than I’ve ever gone before, Maggie.”
“I’m sure it is, Cookie.”
“Normally, I just take the ground-floor entrance to our library.”
“I know.”
The castle had always been off limits, but now, as we climbed the steps toward the grand palace, I felt a rush of anticipation. Would the inside of the castle be like a fairy tale? I noticed a princess balcony on the second floor of the bower for the first time. If there was a princess, was there a prince?
Maggie said, “This place was designed to be the romantic ideal of a knight's castle. It’s intentionally asymmetric. And unlike real castles, it has no fortifications. It’s all for show. Nobody is going to attack us here.”
Overgrown vines crept up the facade of the knight’s house. Tendrils had attached to the dimples in the rock and were slowly forcing cracks into the stone wall. At the same time, inviting blue trumpet blossoms opened to the warmth of the morning sun. I recognized the flowers as morning glories.
I didn’t know how Maggie got to live in the castle. And I didn’t know if she’d bought it or inherited it, but she told me that she’d been there forever. And that was strange, because I’d never seen Maggie around here before. Even though I’d never actually been inside the palace, you’d think that I would’ve run into her on my way to our library.
At the top of the stairs, Maggie opened the massive mahogany door, and soon our footsteps echoed inside the grand vestibule. Endless corridors stretched to the left and straight ahead. I had to stop a moment to take it all in. The white marble floors with contrasting red marble columns were absolutely stunning. Overhead, a realistic mural of sun shining through fluffy clouds had been painted on the ceiling. Everything—even the dark woodwork trim—looked opulent and royal, exactly like a castle should.
“Bavarian?” I asked as she went left, “Like the cream?”
“Desserts again? Damn, you have a one-track mind.” Maggie led me across a breezeway and toward the bower. “But yeah, the castle is Bavarian, like the cream.”
“Yum. One of my favorites.” Along the way, I examined my left hand. My injured thumb dangled at a grotesque angle and was swelling at an alarming rate. When I tried to move it, I couldn’t. “Gee, I think I broke it, Maggie. I need a doctor—”
“No doctor!”
“But look, Maggie.” I wiggled my hand, and with only soft tissue holding my thumb in place, the broken appendage twisted like a limp rag doll.
She agreed, “Yeah, that thumb is definitely broken.”
“It really hurts… Well, it did hurt.”
“Riiight.” Maggie nodded and smiled like a teacher at a student who finally solved a difficult math problem. “Pain is good.”
“Good?”
“The mind has a negativity bias. We learn more from pain than pleasure.”
I reached for the phone in my apron pocket. “I’ll just call my doctor real quick—”
“There is no doctor.” Maggie shook her head.
“Sure there is. I go to Doctor Marten every week for a vitamin shot—”
Suddenly, Maggie slid away from me, shifted her weight onto her back foot, and whipped a roundhouse kick at my head. I reacted too slowly, like a live television broadcast on a ten-second delay, and wound up standing there like a target. Maggie stopped just before her kick made contact with my ear and held her foot just inches from my face. I was amazed by her control. Her speed. Her accuracy. Her flexibility. Her strength. Still frozen in mid-kick, she tapped the tip of my nose with the sole of her boot.
She shouted like a drill sergeant, “What kind of boots are these?”
“Uh—uh. Um, er, uhhhh,” I stammered as I stared at her foot with crossed eyes.
“Your delayed reaction time is incredibly frustrating. Quit being polite. Drop your courtesy filter and think faster. You already know the answer. I told you the day we first met. What kind of boots are these?”
I blurted, “Doc Martens.”
“Good,” she said with her leg still high in the air. Next, Maggie shifted her weight, pointed her toes at the ceiling, and tapped the label on my forehead, making contact right between the letter O and K still scrawled there. “And what is your doctor’s name?”
“Uh—huh?“
“Faster! Answer me!”
Doctor Marten. Racing to get the answer from my brain to my mouth, I blurted the answer, “Doc Martens.”
Finally satisfied, Maggie completed the wide arc of her kick, and as soon as her boot hit the ground, hopped back into a fighting stance. “Just like my motherfucking boots.”
The answer triggered my anxiety. I told myself it was just a coincidence, but then I asked Maggie if my doctor’s name meant anything.
She only asked, “Are you ready for what’s next?”
“What’s next? I’ve got nothing left,” I sighed, “and nowhere else to go.”
“Perfect,” she said. “That’s excellent.”
“Actually, it’s pretty horrible.”
“Is it?” Maggie crossed into the bower and led me toward the skinny hallway of the lady’s chambers. “Forget what you know.”
I laughed nervously, “That’s impossible.”
“I’ll have to ask you to keep an open mind.”
“Okay.”
“So are you ready for the truth?”
“The truth about what?”
“About the men.”
I stood perplexed, trying my best to process everything, then I finally answered, “I don’t know much about men, but I’d sure like to know why Norman treats me so bad.”
“Great! Then follow me.” Maggie turned down a shiny hallway with chrome walls, closed doors, and a glass ceiling.
“It’s like liquid,” I said in awe, “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Home sweet home,” she chuckled, then editorialized as she walked farther down the hall, “Each housewife is stuck in a domestic trap that keeps her voiceless. To escape, she must establish a sense of self by fighting her way out. Only then will she be able to live her life according to her own self-chosen purpose. Men have dehumanized, objectified, and manipulated us for far too long.”
“I don’t know about all the other wives. I just know something’s terribly wrong with my marriage.”
“Now there’s an understatement… Congratulations, by hitting me, you’ve taken the first step toward setting your own goals.”
“But you wanted me to hit you. That wasn’t my idea.”
“You’ll need a sandbox.” Maggie changed the topic and guided me to the last room on the right. A shiny silver electric door slid open, and she gestured to the inside. “Welcome to your new home.”
I stepped into the small square room and instantly felt conflicted. How should I describe such an ultramodern space? Abstract? Futuristic? Clean? The space was completely empty and featureless. No windows. No closets. No furniture. I’d just broken out of a box a few hours ago, so why was I willingly walking into another one? Was this a trap? I didn’t know, but the floor was the shiniest sheet of solid white I’d ever seen. No wax can do that. I squatted to touch the surface. Three of the four walls were gigantic smudge-free mirrors. No glass cleaner can do this. I gazed at my spot-free reflection. The entire ceiling glowed soft white. No bulb can do that. I stared at the light without needing to squint.
There was something mystical about the space. A long white counter stretched the entire length of the fourth wall. Stainless-steel cabinets filled the bottom, and the top was open like a breakfast bar. A long power strip ran above the counter. And mounted on the wall, right in the center, was a white ceramic funnel about the size of a medium kitchen trash can. The funnel opened at the top, and its narrow end fed into some sort of metal rendering chamber beneath. Or was that a 3D printer? A fabricator? I wasn’t sure, but it looked just like my convection microwave, big enough to do a turkey but without any buttons. How does that thing work?
“We need to chat.” Carefully, Maggie took my injured hand in hers. Then she removed my diamond solitaire and gently rubbed the red bruise forming in its absence around my finger. “This is why we shouldn’t wear jewelry. It only hurts you.”
“But that’s my wedding ring.”
“Like the bogus vitamin shots,” she explained as she held the ring between us, “this is another way the men control you—and track you.”
Captivated, I gazed at the fascinating way the diamond caught the light. Tiny glimmering rainbows brought all the jewel’s facets to life. So shiny. So spectacular. It was freaking hypnotic, but then Maggie broke the spell by dropping the token of Norman’s affection into the ceramic funnel.
I protested, “Wait—”
“This is a recyclone,” she said. “It disintegrates all objects into base elements for immediate synthesis or storage in the surplus.”
The recyclone hummed as it ate my diamond.
“Disintegrates?!?” I lunged at the utility wall and reached into the funnel for my ring.
Maggie clutched my wrist to stop me. “Not a good idea.”
“But my diamond—”
She pointed at the metal box underneath the funnel. “You can render objects here.”
“But, Maggie,” I objected, “that’s my wedding ring!”
“I wonder,” Maggie asked pensively, “do you even remember your wedding day?”
“My what?”
“It’s just that a wedding is so special. A woman’s big day to be a princess. Your very own fairy tale. Isn’t that what all the ladies’ magazines say?”
“Well, sure.”
“Did you ever get to pick out that beautiful white dress?”
I was speechless, because the answer was—no, I didn’t. I couldn’t even remember my wedding dress. Or any wedding dress for that matter.
“No?” Maggie read my face and tilted her head with curiosity. “I didn’t think so.” Then she uploaded the result report from the utility wall, reviewed it, and huffed, “Huh?”
“What?”
“That wasn’t gold. Shame.”
“It wasn’t?”
“Nope. Not a trace of gold in it. The setting was only nickel plated with yellow-ionized titanium.”
“Oh.”
“And it gets worse—that wasn’t a real diamond either.” She reviewed the data again. “I should see carbon here.”
“You said the recyclone disintegrates.” I paused for a long time to process everything, then finally asked, “Isn’t it a waste to reduce a precious diamond into elemental carbon?”
“First of all, I just told you it wasn’t a goddamned diamond. Jesus! But since you brought it up, let’s talk about the word precious. What makes something precious?”
I shrugged.
“Diamonds are only valuable because they are rare. And rarity is a fallacy when we have the power to render anything we want. The surplus is overloaded with elemental carbon. I can take that carbon and create a precious diamond any time I want.” She patted the top of the box under the recyclone. “How do I explain this in a language that you can understand? I could take burnt toast, drop it in here, and create a flawless diamond in seconds.”
“What?”
“Jumping Jesus—just watch.”
Maggie held her hand in front of the recyclone and closed her eyes to concentrate. Soon, three slices of French bread appeared behind glass, then magically turned a toasty brown. I touched the side of the rendering chamber to feel for heat, but it was cool. Then little plumes of smoke escaped from the vents behind the box.
“You’re burning it, Maggie.”
“I know.”
She popped the door open, showed me the charred bread, then dropped it into the funnel. I hated the smell of burnt toast, but Maggie slammed the door shut and closed her eyes to focus again. The recyclone hummed as it ate. Finally, Maggie opened the door to show me a cute pink diamond the size of a wild strawberry.
“No microwave can do that,” I gasped.
“If I were so inclined, I could stand here and make diamonds all day long. So that particular rock is hardly rare, and not so precious after all.” She dropped the sparkly pink gem into my hand. “You can keep that.”
“Wow.” Amazed, I gazed at the brilliant facets. “Thank you, Maggie.”
“There’s a shortage of gold in the surplus. Try to avoid using gold. Or platinum. But knock yourself out with diamonds, if that’s what you want. Anyway, your shitbag of a husband fooled you with a cubic zirconia. What a fucking hack.”
“Really?”
“Take a look at the report.”
I reviewed the data, and it was worse than I’d expected. “Ti and Ni. Titanium and nickel. You weren’t kidding.”
“I never kid.”
I kept reading. “Zirconium dioxide, reduced to Zr and O. That cheap bastard!”
“From now on, no jewelry. You hear me? See a ring? Break the finger. See earrings? Rip the earlobes. Spot a necklace? Choke the neck. But besides the strategic fighting stuff—gifts from men come with strings attached. It’s how they buy you.”
Again, I was at a loss for words.
Next, she rendered a pair of nail clippers, then quickly snipped the acrylics off my right hand. “No more fancy manicures.” Then she carefully opened my left hand and pointed at the half-moon cuts in my palm. “Long nails will cut you every time you throw a punch.” In no time, she clipped off the last of my fake fingernails, then gently got the one on my broken thumb. Finally, she dropped the tool back into the funnel.
My fingertips felt supersensitive, like new.
Next, Maggie rendered a barber’s clippers, plugged it in, and switched it on. She moved quickly through my thick hair. “Training starts now. You see long hair, you grab it and pull. Where the head goes, so goes the body.”
My buzzed scalp felt cool and tingly.
Finally, Maggie dropped the hair clippers into the recyclone and created a whisk broom and dustpan. Instantly, my old programming kicked in, and I took the cleaning tools from her. Automatically, I swept up all my hair and nail clippings. Then I stopped and stared at the full dustpan. What do I do with this?
“You recycle it,” Maggie answered.
I dropped it all into the recyclone; trash, whisk broom, dustpan—everything.
“Aha! She can be taught.” Maggie applauded.
I examined my thumb. “This hand is so screwed.”
“What did you learn from the pain?”
“That gag-stopping fists are no good for fighting.”
“Perfect. Would you like me to teach you how to make a proper fist?”
I nodded.
“Hold out your good hand and make a fist.”
I did, with my thumb inside—the wrong way.
“There is a thing called muscle memory. It is the ability to reproduce a specific movement without consciously thinking about it. Thinking slows you down, so it’s important to learn the correct form. And then you practice and practice until the movement becomes automatic.”
“Automatic?”
Maggie tugged on my tucked thumb. “Loosen your fingers.”
I followed her instructions and relaxed my grip.
Then Maggie pulled my thumb free, placed it across the outside of my fist, and told me to squeeze. After I did, she asked, “See those white knuckles?”
I nodded.
“When you punch, you squeeze as tight as you can right before impact. You want one big solid ball with a flat face.” She rubbed her fingertips across my biggest protruding knuckles. “See how they pop out more?”
“Yes.”
“You hit with this part of the fist, and you won’t get hurt. I promise.”
“Okay.”
“Rest your hand between hits, or you’ll tire yourself out.“
“Okay.”
“Great, now try it.” She pointed at the hole my fake wedding ring had made in her tummy. “Hit me!”
“But you’re already hurt there.”
“Jumping Jesus motherfucking Christ. You still don’t get it do you?” Maggie backed into the utility wall and scooted up onto the countertop. All she had to do was sit there and concentrate, and her stomach magically repaired itself. Finally, she hopped off the counter and said, “Like I told you before, you can’t hurt me.”
It was too much to process, and for some reason, my injured thumb started throbbing again. I’d had enough. I didn’t want to fight—not with words or fists. Why did Maggie keep pushing me? She gave me a diamond. Then she cut off all my hair. Now she wanted to fight again. Was she trying to break me? Look at the word spelled out on my face, Maggie. I’m already B-R-O-K-E-N. My husband sure thought so. Norman believed it so much that he scrawled it right on my forehead—in permanent ink. I’m marked, Maggie. Permanently. It wasn’t just my thumb that was broken. I felt broken—inside. Like something had snapped. Maybe my husband was right. Maybe I was ready for the scrap heap. I felt tired. Re-tired. Overwhelmed. Done.
Maggie touched my forehead like a mother taking her child’s temperature. “One-oh-one… Yeah, you are running hot.”
When she took her hand away, the spiteful label on my face had disappeared like magic. Shocked, I stared at my reflection in the closest mirrored wall. I couldn’t process all this rapid change. All this sensory input. All this new information. All these feelings. I gagged. And oh no! I made the new Maggie fist—the wrong fist to stop myself. She was pushing too hard, going too fast too soon. Suddenly, I barfed my Rolling Rock all over the shiny white floor.
I couldn’t believe that happened—I’d never puked before. And I didn’t like it one bit. Then I automatically reverted back to my old programming and dropped to my knees to clean up the vomit with my bare hands. After all this, I was still a slave to my programming. I felt like a damned idiot—just a stupid robot.
“I made a mess.”
“It’s okay,” Maggie said. “Leave it.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry about cleaning it up.” She gestured toward the recyclone. “Go ahead and fix yourself instead.”
“I can’t.” I pointed at her perfect, and somehow now even more muscular, stomach. “I’m not strong like you.”
“You have such potential, Cookie. You’re more like me than you realize.”
“Hmm? There’s that word again.”
“What word?”
“Potential. All this time, I’ve been looking for ways to ease my anxiety, but maybe I should start working on realizing all this hidden potential instead.”
“Now you’re talking! Why don’t you start by fixing that busted thumb?”
“Okay.” I rendered first aid supplies with the utility wall. A splint, some gauze, and medical tape appeared through the little window of the box, then I yanked the door open. “Help me set this.”
She found my solution primitive but played along. Together, we taped the rigid splint to my broken thumb. Then I rendered an ice pack and placed it over my swollen left hand.
“Ah,” I sighed, “that’s better.”
“Well, it’s certainly a step in the right direction.”
Suddenly, my Internal Prompt interrupted:
I HAVE SOMETHING TO GIVE YOU.
MEET ME AT OUR LIBRARY.