Ghosts

            I'm kneeling, letting the feel of fabric against my fingers drown out everything else as I load clothes into the washer. I wipe sweat from my forehead. The AC leaves my arms cold. The fluorescent lights buzz above me. I hear footsteps from behind and pause, listening until they fade across the room. I grab the shirt and can’t help but look. Splatters of blood dot the plain beige. I shove it into the machine and keep loading the rest.
            I only need an hour here.
            I steady my breathing. The rhythmic motion of my hands helps. I had to do it, I tell myself. I reach for the last shirt and toss it in. I know what those things can do. I scan the room and see only a couple other people. There’s an employee in the corner talking to someone. I take a slow breath. No one is paying any attention to me. I’m safe.
            I stand up and unscrew the cap on the detergent bottle sitting atop the washer, setting it down. The clang of the hard plastic against the metal surface startles me for a moment. I grab the handle of the bottle and start pouring. The blue liquid starts flowing out unevenly. I’m unable to keep my hands steady. I stare into the viscous pool collecting in the cap. Its consistency is identical to the incubation fluid. I blink, and for a moment I think I see a fingertip growing in the cap. I blink again, and it’s gone. I shake my head. I need more sleep. Those days are past me. I’m safe now.
            I pick up the cap and pour it into the detergent tray. The bright liquid slowly seeps down into the machine and disappears. I close the tray and washer door. I’m safe. I tell myself again.
            I reach my hand into my pocket and fish out a handful of coins. They feel heavier than they should. I squint at the LED digits next to the coin slot and freeze. I think of that cursed badge I cut up. The numbers that identified me in that place. 265. My mind spins. Could they know? I was careful, though. I covered every trail. Hell, I killed him.
            Mistake. His scream replays in my mind. The muffling of his cries as I gagged him. The slowing of his laboured breathing. I catch myself. No. I killed it. I killed. It.
            But my mind still races. What if I’m wrong? I don’t realize I’m still staring at the LED digits, coins still entangled in my fist.
            “It looks like you’re having trouble there. Can I help?”
            I jump.
            I then quickly compose myself and look back at the person standing across from me. She has a slightly concerned expression on her face. Stupid. I find myself staring, looking at her iris patterns, her earlobes, the way her mouth moves. The same signs that he had. I catch myself again. That it had.
             “Oh, sorry to startle you I just—” she starts before I interrupt her.
            “No, it’s alright. I was just lost in thought.” I offer her a forced smile. Stupid. She returns the same slightly concerned look before covering it with a cordial expression.
            “Well, if you need any help, feel free to find me.”
            I’m listening to her speech but not for the words, watching her mouth. Nothing out of the ordinary. She turns and walks away, her bright pink employee shirt sticking out like a beacon among the sea of white machines. Then I notice her gait is stiff.
            Panic fills me again. I remember the early human models. Smooth-skinned, blank figures walking on sterilized treadmills. The gait was the first thing that we had trouble fixing.
            I steady myself. Anyone can walk awkwardly. It wasn’t like the other signs. The signs that I was certain about. I force myself to slot the coins into the machine. I start the wash cycle.
            55 minutes.
            I peer over to where the employee was walking. She’s talking to another customer, her attention nowhere near me. I look away and take a deep breath. I watch the foamy water fill the washer drum as the clothes start to spin into an opaque blend of colours. An amalgamation of fabric. I continue staring. Flesh. It was nothing more than flesh. The tightness in my chest eases. An amalgamation of flesh. Nothing more.
            I walk over to the opposing wall and sit down on one of the pink plastic chairs, choosing a spot where I can still see my washer. I look around me. There are two people to my left, about five chairs down, and another across the room. Three other people are among the washers and dryers, loading clothes or collecting them. The employee is back at the counter, on her phone. No one is paying any attention to me.
            Satisfied, I open my bag and pull out the newspaper I packed. I unfurl the crumpled paper and flip my way to the crossword. I take a pencil out.
            37 across: A hidden bar.
            Speakeasy, I think to myself, filling in the long row of cells. It’s a word that sounds out of place in the modern era. A ghost of the past still living in the present. I start to think about the irony of it all—how I’m living like it’s the 1950s. A ghost. It sounds almost hilariously absurd to me. Listening to the news on analogue radios, using payphones to make calls, pulling out a newspaper for entertainment. It’s a strange life, but it’s a life nonetheless. At least I can say that, I think to myself. The others couldn’t. He couldn’t. The screams come back for a second. I quell them. No. They had taken him long before that. I was certain. He’s in a better place. That’s what he’d tell me, anyway. Then he’d chuckle at the newspaper I’m holding. He always had a thing for antiques, even when we shared a room as kids. I used to complain to our parents about all the clutter. He probably never expected me to end up depending on that junk.
            I focus back on the crossword, picking away at it slowly. It soothes me, working on an orderly puzzle. It’s a series of deductions, one finished clue planting a foundation for others. Before I can stop myself, I wander back through the last weeks, the series of clues that I followed which ended in what I did. I pick them apart, convincing myself that they were sound. That I was certain. I follow the aftermath too. There should be no trace of it back to me now, no indication of where I’ve been. A ghost. That’s what I am now.
            More time passes. I deduce the last word of the crossword. I briefly set down the paper and take a look around again. The two people to my left are still there, one of them asleep now. There are now a couple more people among the machines loading clothes, and another person is sitting across the room from me, a few chairs down from the person who was there prior. The employee is still at the counter. There’s a child leaving with their parents out the door. Nothing out of the ordinary. Good.
            I glance at my washer, the drum now a humming blur. It’s going through the spin cycle.
            15 more minutes.
            I pick up my newspaper again and aimlessly flip through pages. I read through controversies and scandals, surprise decisions by politicians and CEOs, dark pasts suddenly uncovered. I don’t finish reading most of them, as a growing unease settles. I start to wonder how many of these stories were a result of what that place produced. What I helped produce. Perhaps it’s all of them.
            I contemplate the day I made my decision. I had stopped calling myself a coward for running. I never blamed myself for it either. How could I fight that place? Something so invisible and omnipotent. Something that runs through the world unnoticed, always watching. That day marked five years since I began working on the human models. The replacements.
            I escaped, though.
            Unless I was wrong. I curse myself at the thought. I knew the signs and the stories. Family members being replaced. Defectors mysteriously missing. I knew they had taken him, and I wasn’t going to let them take me too. It didn’t make its screams feel any less real. I flip through the newspaper again, trying to distract myself from my own thoughts. I’m okay now. I’m safe.
            A few more minutes pass as I continue to read. Then I stumble upon an article with a familiar face. It’s another scandal. I freeze for a moment. I stare at the grainy figure in the photo, and it stares back at me. Just like it did during the diagnostics. Just like it did when I analyzed its speech patterns. I put down the newspaper and try to calm my breathing. My hands are shaking. I’m safe.
            I glance around again. To my left, the same two people. I look across, and nothing’s changed there either. I look towards the counter. The employee meets my gaze and quickly looks away. She was watching me. I feel my heart racing again. I put up the newspaper, blocking my face. I step through my trail once more. No, I was careful. I convince myself. They can’t know. I apprehensively peek over the newspaper at her again. She’s back on her phone. I take a deep breath and almost laugh to myself. I’m safe.
            I glance at my washer again and see that the spin cycle has stopped.
            It’s done.
            I tuck my newspaper back into my bag and grab a basket, walking back over to the machine. I pull the door open, the mechanical clunk ringing out in the silence of the room. I scan around me again. No one is watching.
            I set my basket down and start to rake the clothes into it. The cold, damp fabric sticks to my hands. Mindlessly raking them in. Like we would rake in discarded skin. I shiver and focus on the clothes. I watch the different colours, now dulled by the water. Muted greys, beiges, navy blue. I come across the shirt and hold it up for a second, its plain beige cotton a damp uniform surface. I look for the blood and don’t find a speck in sight. Clean. I fold it and drop it into the basket.
            I continue to rake in the rest of the clothes, and my mind starts to drift. I glance at the shirt again in the basket. My last tie to that place, now erased. I think about my life ahead of me. The used truck and camper. The reservation. I find myself smiling. It’s better than what I deserve. But it’s what they deserved. I think of all the kidnappings. The innocent victims. Yes, it’s what they deserved. I have to live in their honour.
            I finish emptying the drum and grab the washer door. I’m still thinking about the future. Thinking about how I’ll return to the motel after this to gather my things and leave once and for all. I’m distracted, relaxed. It’s done now.
            That’s when I don’t hear the footsteps approaching me.
            I close the washer door, the reflection in the glass sweeping across the room until it reveals a figure standing behind me. My heart stops. I stare at it. The reflection doesn’t move. I force myself to turn my head to look, fighting every instinct.
            It’s him.
            I feel blood draining from my face. He’s looking at me with those tired eyes, the same ones I had known my entire life. I desperately scan his face. His earlobes are slightly misaligned. Or have they always been like that? It had different earlobes. I’m sure of it. Or was it him? Oh god, what if it was him? No, I was sure. I was sure. But all models have variance. The irises. I stare at the irises. I can’t see them clearly enough.
            He’s wearing a dusty leather jacket. There’s a tear in one of the sleeves. What if I was wrong? The sun is streaming through the windows behind him, illuminating his back, reflecting off steam drifting in the air. I’m starting to get lightheaded. He still stands there, watching me with that tired expression. He looks like an apparition, a holy wraith, a ghost.
            He opens his mouth.
            “We need to talk.”