The Citrus Syndrome

4 ; quiet

Quiet

Ghania

Being quiet isn't hard. You just seal your lips and forget that they open at all. I had a jacket once with a cheap plastic zipper. It got stuck up at the top, and wouldn't budge. Now, I just pull it over my head and wear it like a sweater. I'm sort of like that, I guess.

Most people at the lab don't know that I can talk. Fewer still have seen my tongue. I keep my mouth closed and my eyes open. This way, I see the danger but it does not fall upon me.

Those who chatter on and on don't understand the world the way quiet ones do. No one has power over me -- I give them no leverage. News cannot affect me, because I've forgotten how to be affected. I watch, but I don't participate. I see blood, but I don't get hurt.

People call me cold, but they don't know me. Maybe I put up walls, but there are doors. No one looks hard enough, that's all.

So everyone is panicking, this much is obvious. But I don't feel it. I watch the pandemonium from my computer, looking down as not to catch the eyes of the others. The virus is out, we're busted. Everyone's sick and dying. Okay. But we're alive, aren't we?

Dr. Catherine, the woman who hired me, walks past. She doesn't spare me a glance, not that I mind. She scares me with her hawk-like features and negative energy. Willy claims she isn't so bad, but Willy is foolish and not to be taken seriously.

I don't get paid. I work as an intern, because I have no prior experience in a lab. Dr. Catherine says that if I do intern work for a year, I will become an employee.

I suppose that doesn't matter anymore, though. The way things are looking, we're all going to die.

I haven't been assigned a job. Some people are tracking the spread of the virus, others are answering phones and typing emails or pamphlets. Others work in the lab, undoubtedly grasping at threads for an antidote.

So I sit and I watch. There aren't many people here at the facility, but there's enough to make my breathing labored when I think about it. Enough to make my heart palpitate like an ax striking metal again and again when we're all gathered together.

I don't have friends. After my first week, my colleagues gave up on me. Well, all except one.

"Ghania!" Wilson calls, flying down the aisle toward me. His jacket flaps at his sides, reminding me of a penguin's flightless wings. Fly away, Willy. I have nothing for you.

Wilson is attractive in his own way, I suppose. His features are delicate for a man, his stubble seeming almost out of place on his strikingly feminine face. But I'm fairly certain he doesn't find me attractive. He's married, after all. What married white man would look twice at a friendless muslim girl who speaks all but twice a month?

But he's talking to me, so I listen. "Ghania," he repeats. "Do I look gray to you? A little ashen?"

I have no idea why he's asking me of all people; Willy's friends with everyone. Maybe inside, I'm flattered, but on the surface, I'm just confused.

"This is important," Wilson insists.

I look at him. In this light, everyone looks a little ashen. But usually, Will's so full of life, almost illuminated by it. Today, he has none of that glow. He does look gray. Ashen. I give a small nod, half hoping he won't catch it, because I know what this means. I know what he's thinking. I want to say, I'm not sure, it's probably nothing. Don't worry, but that would mean letting go of my current three-week silence streak, and I'm not will to do that. Not even for Wilson.

He deflates when I affirm his suspicions. "What if I have it?" He whispers.

I don't know what he wants from me. Reassurance? Condolences? Sympathy? I have none of this. All I have for him is a frown and an apologetic shrug. I adjust my hijab so that I don't have to look at him.

After a little while, he walks away. I exhale, relieved. It's not that I don't like Willy. I'd just rather enjoy him from a distance.

Same goes for Bo. So when the door bursts open, that ax strikes my metal heart again. I close my eyes, trying to center myself. It never works.

Wilson doesn't make me nervous. He's pretty and popular, but kind and funny enough that he isn't intimidating. Bo, however, ties my stomach up in every kind of knot there is. Him and his blonde hair and blue eyes -- not icy blue like Dr. Catherine, but glistening blue like a clear water spring -- and steady, unruffled face.

He isn't alone. In his arms he carries a woman with flyaway curly hair and bronze skin, although she is looking exceptionally sickly and pale. The woman has her arms wrapped around a bundle, possibly a baby. She looks as though she may throw up at any moment.

"Where's Cat?" Bo demands of no one in particular. At first, I don't know who he's talking about, then I realize that he means Dr. Catherine. Cat. What a soft nickname for a woman so sharp.

A man talking on a telephone a few yards ahead of me covers the receiver with his hand. "Just saw her go by," he offers. "She's probably in The Dungeon."

The Dungeon is what they call her office. I have yet to go to The Dungeon, and I consider myself lucky. From what I've heard, a visit to the gray cell will end in either a long talk, emotional torture, or being fired. Of the three, the possibility of a long talk scares me most. Dr. Catherine is not a bad person, but the prospect of speak to her terrifies me.

Bo nods, shooting down the aisle with amazing speed for someone who is carrying another human in his arms. I wonder who she is. Bo never talks about his life (Not to me, anyway). Perhaps he's married, like Willy.

Do I look gray to you? A little ashen? If Wilson dies, I wonder if his wife will know. Will she feel him dropping to the ground in her own heart? Will she bleed when he bleeds? Will she scream when he cries? Or will she feel nothing at all?

At times, I do wish there was someone to worry about me. Even Dr. Catherine has friends who care about her. Me? I have no one.

The Citrus Syndrome tears you apart from the inside out. I wonder, what will it find to tear in me, when I have already been broken into unretrievable bits?