The Panopticon by Christine Arroyo
My apartment window looked out onto the tall towers of the housing projects. I often sat on the front fire escape smoking menthol cigarettes and making up stories about the people in the apartments across the way. Lights turning on and off, clothes fluttering off a balcony, a stuffed teddy bear shoved up against a window - couples fighting, children crying, grandparents left in charge. Down below, the streetlights flickered across a large mirrored metallic box marked with the NYPD logo set on an extendable ladder like the kind on a cherry picker truck. It had been dropped off by an NYPD van and I mostly forgot about it until one morning I opened my curtains and gasped because now the surveillance box on the retractable ladder was fully extended, eye-level and obstructing my entire front window. I once had scaffolding outside my window for months and it blocked the sun, so it was always dark inside, killing my plants and my ambition to go outside. Now this structure was doing the same thing, except worse, as its mirrored surface reflected my exposed legs and post-coital hair. I quickly drew the curtains back, breathing hard, wondering who was inside, who was watching me?
I called the local police precinct and the snarly voice of whoever answered hung up on me as they tried to transfer my call. I called back and another man answered. Once he knew my name and my address he slipped and said that turquoise was his favorite color. I hung up, pulling on the sleeve of my turquoise sweater, dread anchoring into my stomach. Morning turned into afternoon, which finally became the kind of evening where heat lingers heavy in the air. Outside I heard kids twisting open fire hydrants. Sirens screamed across the city and the humidity felt like hands reaching around my body. The small air conditioner in my bedroom finally went bust so I was forced to open the front window, forced to confront my sweaty reflection. I closed the curtains and retreated into my bedroom. I shivered in spite of the heat. The feeling of eyes boring into my skin pinpricked my arms like goosebumps. My bedroom became my cave, as summer gave way to fall and still the surveillance box remained. I’d called the NYPD so many times I had their phone number memorized. Okay, ma’am they said to pacify my complaints.
Months had gone by and still the surveillance box remained. Its silver reflection, watching me, reflecting me, evaluating me, made me paranoid about every move, every decision. I censored my thoughts and actions as though it could read my mind. It watched and waited, for what I have no idea, and the more its mirrored surface reflected my movements back to me, the more I stopped moving, until I shrunk to a flickering shadow skittering between my kitchen and bedroom. I worked from home and stopped going out, ordering groceries and take-out whenever I needed something.
I told my latest hook-up that he had to come over to my place because I couldn’t leave my apartment. Later, when he stood in my living room, asking why it was so dark, I hesitated, finally pulling back the curtains as if revealing a scar or an embarrassing tattoo. It’s this mirrored surveillance box, I said as I pointed at my reflection pointing back at me, feeling skittish, my limbs twitching, my skin hairs on edge.
My lover shrugged and pulled me closer. His lips caressed my ears as he pulled my shirt open, his mouth searching for my breast, his actions suddenly frantic, one eye twisted toward the mirrored box, turned on by the idea of being watched. I pulled away. They’re not looking at you. They put those there to watch the projects, he said, not wanting his seduction to be interrupted. He then stepped back, cocked his head to the side, and said, Then again, maybe being watched suits you, you look good, thinner.
Christine Arroyo's work has been published in
X-R-A-Y Magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, Dark Recesses Press, Beyond Words, and Variety Pack, to name a few. Her work has been nominated for "Best of the Net" and is forthcoming in the 2023 Best Microfiction Anthology. She has just completed her first novel about siblings navigating an increasingly warming world.
Posted on November 8th 2023