The Cells
“I learned, in fact, how to make myself invisible.”
AUGUST 19, 2025
People don’t usually realize how much about them is revealed by the dirt others clean up after them. The clothes wafting the dank sweat of anxiety just before I put them into the washing machine. The bathtub with the brown stripe indicating how high the water level usually is. The sink with bits of food stuck to its greasy walls. The balls of dust, the shards of glass, the bits of food and pills rolled beneath the fridge. I learned a lot about my clients just from the pills. But I was familiar with much more than that—their bedrooms, their smells, their habits.
My clients didn’t even want to think about it.
I was just the hired help who came to tidy up. Nothing more.
I was visible to them at the beginning, when they opened the door to let me in, and at the end, when they paid me and quickly shut the door behind me again. Some of them were more cautious in my presence at the outset: they spoke with their loved ones in a bright, falsely cheerful voice, so I could tell what a well functioning family they were, and attentively asked if I had everything I needed. My responses were clipped and terse: yeah, absolutely, for sure, don’t worry.
She earned enough to be able to give money to other members of the family who were worse off than her. But the best part of it by far was that she told me what it looked like in the Cells.
Over the years of going to clean at my clients’, I learned, in fact, how to make myself invisible. The main thing was not to make eye contact. Not to be loud. Also important was not to ask questions or let them drag me into conversations, which were never sincere anyway, even when the subject was something totally trivial. Since the last thing any of the clients wanted to hear was that I was lacking something or needed anything. The only answer they wanted to hear was that everything was going smoothly: no, no, really, fine, thanks, all good.
Thanks to that, I had the reputation as a quiet, reliable helper, so they recommended me to one another.
“She does whatever you tell her. She’s quick and doesn’t talk,” I heard one client praising me to a friend of hers. “She’s no problem at all.”
And she was right. I was no problem. The problems were all around us.
The first Cells began to be built about forty years ago. There wasn’t much talk about them at first. They sprang up in the parts of the city that were well guarded and where only a small percentage of people had access. As they grew in number, though, the development of the Cells increasingly became a subject of conversation.
Originally, the Cells were created as a few small residential units with one attached on top of the other. They were supposed to be as self-sufficient as possible. Either directly in them or nearby, you could filter water, grow a small amount of fruit and vegetables, and spend most of your time in a meticulously furnished, climate-controlled space. But as the number of applicants grew, people who had higher standards for which they were willing to pay, the appearance of the Cells changed too. The units were no longer small, but larger and more luxurious, with gyms, schools, saunas. The saunas were especially pointless, but the clients demanded them, and no one objected.
I still remember how angry it made me at the time. I wanted someone to do something about all the drought, heat, and dying off. And obviously the solution was not to build walled-off, guarded, climate-controlled spaces that only a few lucky individuals could afford. But the drought was spreading, the temperatures were climbing every year, and no one was doing anything about it at all.
The residents of the Cells guarded the area vigilantly, their money a screen, a bulwark, the most dependable insulation against the outside world.
First came the interviews in the media with the people who designed the Cells. They spoke of them as an alternative, which would soon be available to everyone—they just had to wait a while. Then came the testimonies from the people who built the Cells. They were excited about the technology, which would soon be available to everyone—really, they just had to wait a while. Last came the news stories about the people who lived in the Cells. They were full of conjecture and admiration for what the residents of the Cells had been able to achieve—and most likely would achieve in the future. We were supposed to be glad for them and wish them all success.
That was the first time it dawned on me that all the smart technology and gadgets in the Cells were not going to spread to people like me.
Eventually, the residents of the Cells started looking for someone to take care of them. To cook for them, watch their children, mow their regularly watered lawns, repair their electrical wiring, dispose of their malfunctioning appliances, and bury their dead. Even in the Cells there were deaths from heat-induced illness, although the number of victims must have been quite a bit lower. We didn’t know the exact figures.
The first person I knew personally who got a look inside the Cells was my ten-year-older cousin. She went there to clean. She had excellent references and years of experience, so she got a job with a family of four. To begin with, they just tested her out for a few weeks. But finding nothing wrong with her, they recommended her to several friends, who then in turn recommended her to others. The number of households in my cousin’s rounds swiftly expanded. She earned enough to be able to give money to other members of the family who were worse off than her. But the best part of it by far was that she told me what it looked like in the Cells.
I was twenty at the time and eagerly looked forward to visits from my cousin. She looked different from everyone else. As if she carried with her an afterglow of that hard to imagine world where the air was cool and the water rations were bigger. I thought if I spent enough time with her, a little of that afterglow might rub off on me. And everyone around me would see that I was one of them. That all that saltiness, sweatiness, and exhaustion had nothing to do with me.
My cousin told me about the families where she went to clean. She would describe the way that each individual looked, and her parodies of their gestures and way of talking were unparalleled. I laughed my head off when she mimicked a young woman checking up on her or an old man who shouted a lot and constantly criticized her. She made it all seem hilarious—a parade of tics, endlessly repeated phrases and off-putting facial expressions. At the time, it didn’t occur to me that she was just covering up how disturbing the experience was.
Later my cousin was sometimes sick. The heat began to take a toll on her as it had on so many others. She said she was dizzy and saw spots before her eyes. And she was one of the lucky ones—some had persistent vomiting and fainting, and many of those who were already enfeebled in some way simply couldn’t go on. Nobody talked much about it, it was simply a fact. We knew my cousin should take time off, but she never left work. She was too afraid that if she refused they would find someone else to replace her. And she couldn’t allow that. No one in the family tried to talk her out of her decision—everyone was aware that it was steady, reliable work, and you had to put up with some things for that.
My role was simple: I handed my cousin whatever she needed and handed her something to drink whenever she was thirsty, so she wouldn’t have to interrupt her work.
When my cousin’s condition failed to improve, she decided to get me a permit so I could come to the Cells with her. As her discreet assistant. This required a slew of certificates and medical records, and for a long time it wasn’t clear if I would be approved. The residents of the Cells guarded the area vigilantly, their money a screen, a bulwark, the most dependable insulation against the outside world. When I found out I had actually been granted my permit, I was happy in a way I had never been before. I wondered what it would be like there? How would the people look?
But the weeks went by and my cousin was still strong enough to manage on her own.
“The permit is just in case I really need it,” she said. “It’s not for you to get a peek.”
But I wanted to go, I wanted to go bad.
One day my cousin was so sick, she almost couldn’t get out of bed. So finally she sent for me.
When I showed up, she had a vacant, glassy-eyed stare, and every movement, even the slightest one, was obviously difficult for her. I helped my cousin get up and get dressed. The whole time my chest was bubbling over with joy, which I was ashamed of but couldn’t suppress.
“You mustn’t look at any of them, they don’t like that,” my cousin instructed me. “Keep your eyes down and be quick and quiet. If they ask you any questions, just let me dod the talking.”
I tried to remember it all and, just to be sure, I repeated it to myself several times along the way. When we stepped up to the entrance, I kept my gaze fixed to the ground—and didn’t tear it away the whole time. I heard their voices, but all I saw of the people moving around the Cells was their feet.
The first two households we went in had sleek, light-brown floors that were almost impossible to sweep anything up from. My role was simple: I handed my cousin whatever she needed, and handed her something to drink whenever she was thirsty, so she wouldn’t have to interrupt her work. When she got too weak to bend down, I washed out the cracks and narrow corners. The whole time I could feel her body burning next to mine. The bitter heat of illness coming off her in waves.
No one really talked to us—my cousin gave a loud greeting on arrival and then collected the money at the end. The tips of the shoes on the people who paid her were turned to the sides as if their owners couldn’t wait to get away from her again.
The first two households seemed almost the same to me. The third had snow-white floors everywhere that burned my eyes.
“Maybe with two of you it’ll go faster,” said the man’s feet in blue shoes that headed toward us when we arrived. It was the most words anyone in the Cells had addressed to us so far.
“This is my cousin. She’s going to help me today.”
“Hm,” grumbled the blue shoes, but they didn’t move.
“I gave notification,” my cousin added, but the shoes gave no response. They remained in place at first, then stepped a little closer. I could smell their owner—a scent like clean laundry and menthol with something heavy, sweaty, and dank underneath.
“Fine,” said the blue shoes finally. “But I’m going to keep an eye on you.”
I didn’t know what that meant, and I was afraid to ask. The white floor reflecting the sharp sun streaming in the window seared into my skull.
“Let’s get to it,” my cousin said, her voice sounding softer than usual. She headed for the bathroom, with me in tow—and the blue shoes right behind.
Our cleaning went slower than in the previous households, since everywhere we went, the blue shoes followed us. They waited for us to take up our positions and then stood behind our backs, quiet and menacing. When we changed places, so did they. After a while, I heard their owner breathing heavily and a strange smacking sound that came from where they were standing. But I didn’t dare turn around.
I took over her job. None of the residents of the Cells asked what had happened to her. At first I thought it was out of consideration, but then I realized they just didn’t care.
My cousin and I didn’t speak a word to each other the whole time. Working in that strangely tense atmosphere, I did my best to be as quick as possible. I wanted to be out of there so bad. But it was like time passed differently here than in the previous households. It felt like all the heat from outside was pouring in through the cracks in the windows and doors, transforming the house into a single unbreathable stifling space, in which you could move only with great difficulty.
“Bring her with you again next time,” said the blue shoes when they finally paid my cousin the money.
Neither one of us answered and we didn’t say a word the whole way home either.
I continued to help my cousin out from time to time. Eventually I managed to unglue my eyes from the ground and look at the people who lived in the Cells. They all appeared to be sleek and fresh, as if they had just showered. I tried to limit conversation with them to a minimum—saying hello when we arrived and goodbye when we left, and that seemed to suit them just fine. The only one I couldn’t bring myself to look at for any length of time was the owner of the blue shoes. Not even the afternoon when my cousin collapsed on the snow-white kitchen floor. They rushed her off to the doctor, but as with so many others who had succumbed to the heat, she never revived.
I took over her job. None of the residents of the Cells asked what had happened to her. At first I thought it was out of consideration, but then I realized they just didn’t care. I cleaned the households she used to visit, and over the years I acquired a few more.
Everything was as it should be. I was quiet, dependable, and didn’t cause any problems. These were the qualities valued most by the residents of the Cells. The blue shoes kept following me, and I never said one word about it. They began coming closer and closer, until sometimes they were panting and lip-smacking right next to me. And I didn’t cause any problems. No, no problems at all. I just had to stick it out. Soon I learned to focus on other things—the groove in the wall or the scratch on the door, so I felt like it wasn’t actually happening to me.
But the residents of the Cells were beside themselves with fear. Their Noah’s Ark — which they had paid for, fortified, and on which they had felt so safe — was sinking to the bottom.
I often had headaches from the heat. I saw spots before my eyes, and there were days I felt so weak it was a struggle to get out of bed. That was when my youngest sister began to come to the Cells with me. She helped me with all the households, except the one with the blue shoes, I wouldn’t take her there.
I felt worse every day. Like my body was dissolving, painfully melting away. The bitter heat of illness coming off me in waves. And what was worse: I had no control over any of it. I knew it wouldn’t be long. One day I would collapse onto one of the spick-and-span floors and my sister would take my place. Then, after a few years, the same thing would happen to her, and so on and so on, again and again, for as long as the residents of the Cells required our services.
But then a few things happened all at once.
One of the Cells, out of nowhere, came crashing down to the ground. Two people died inside. At first it was attributed to inadequate maintenance and a climate control system overload (which was—what else—the fault of the hired help who looked after that Cell), but in the course of the investigation something else emerged: the Cell’s HVAC system couldn’t withstand long periods of external overheating and fluctuations in temperature.
“We can’t unequivocally say it’s a problem,” one of the architects who worked on the Cells said guardedly. “Rather, it’s a chance to improve on the design. Now is the time for us to weigh the alternatives and take concrete measures as needed.”
But the residents of the Cells were beside themselves with fear. Their Noah’s Ark—which they had paid for, fortified, and on which they had felt so safe—was sinking to the bottom. And it wasn’t clear who or what could rescue them. So they began to do something unheard of and entirely bizarre: they began to talk with the hired help.
“Tomorrow they’re coming to take measurements and propose reinforcing the structure,” said one of my clients. It took a while for me to realize she was actually talking to me.
I gave her a brief nod, allowing her a chance to airbrush out the strange deviation and forget it happened.
“Our Cell was one of the last ones built,” she went on. “So I think any potential flaws should be small and easily repaired.”
Again I said nothing. It seemed safer to me.
“They’ll come fix it, won’t they?” she pressed me. I nodded and for the first time looked her in the eye.
“For sure,” I said, the lie sliding by unnoticed.
In the days after that, I had similar conversations with most of my clients. They wanted me to reassure them that everything would be fine. I gave them what they wanted, since it was easier that way and I knew nothing about it. I tossed out sentences like “You have nothing to worry about” and “I’m sure nothing will happen to you,” or “It’ll all work out.” Then one day, the blue shoes spoke to me.
“It won’t affect us,” said their owner, walking toward me. “Advancements are happening too fast for that to happen.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Soon they’ll come up with a more robust version of the Cells,” he declared. Now he was standing almost right beside me. “It will be able to withstand anything. Absolutely anything.”
“No,” I said before I realized what I was saying. “That’s not going to happen.”
“What did you say?” The blue shoes paced angrily back and forth. “How dare you say such a thing?”
“Everything is going to melt. Collapse and fall apart. You know it as well as I do.”
A strange sound issued from the owner of the blue shoes. After a moment, I realized he was crying.
“You can’t say that,” he breathed quietly. “You aren’t allowed to say such a thing.” I turned around, slammed the door, and walked out.
For some time still, I continued to make the rounds of the other clients. They stopped talking to me. There was nothing to say. Their clothes gave off the sour scent of fear. Big sweat stains appeared on the bedclothes. I stopped finding pills under the fridge—my clients kept too careful a watch on their valuable meds, which they took by the fistful.
Then other Cells began to collapse as well. No one spoke about it as an opportunity any more, or about improvements in technology. The Cells were falling to the ground one after another. The sweltering heat and stifling atmosphere were growing stronger and there was nowhere to hide anymore.
As far as I know, there isn’t anyplace like that now.
Sometimes I see black spots before my eyes, which don’t disappear for hours, and sometimes they even increase in number, until I can’t see anything at all and I have to sit or lie down and wait till they go away/wait for it to pass. I think the end must look something like that—a gradual darkening.
I don’t go anywhere to clean anymore, I’m too exhausted, and besides, almost no one cares about that anymore. I imagine the moldy leftovers, the dust and dirt piling up, spreading over the surfaces and burying everything that gets in their way, since there’s no one to stop it now.
People don’t usually realize how much about them is revealed by the dirt others clean up after them.
This story was originally published in Czech in 2020, as part of an anthology titled “The Future.”
✺ Published in “Issue 31: Fiction” of The Dial
