The Treatment

by Suzanne Young

  Solitary is darker than the other places in the hospital I’ve seen, but it’s not gloomy. The floor is covered in gray rubber tiles, and the walls have white padding. There’s a small set of track lights, but there are no windows. The corners of the room are set in shadows. That’s where I find Dallas, sitting on the floor with her hands bound in front of her. She’s wearing bright-yellow scrubs that wash out her complexion. When she recognizes me, she smiles broadly. Her gap-toothed grin is no longer charming, not when she looks insane.

  “Did I kill him?” she asks.

  Has she been focused on Roger this entire time? “I don’t know,” I say. “Last I heard, the ambulance was coming for him.” I hate the disappointed look in her eyes. What’s become of us—wishing for someone’s death? What has The Program done to us?

  “Did they find Realm?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. They haven’t mentioned him yet.” I don’t want to voice the possibility that Roger could have hurt him. This way I can hope that Realm got away. Right now he might be the only person who can save us. James will be able to remember—he took The Treatment—but he’s still somewhere in The Program. I just hope he’s all right.

  “No one gets away,” Dallas says, rocking gently. Her entire demeanor is smaller, vulnerable. “The Program will find Realm. It’s only a matter of time, because somewhere in your head is a clue that will help find him. They’ll get it out of you. Or me,” she reasons, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling. “But probably not me because I’ll be dead.”

  “Dallas,” I whisper, leaning forward in the chair. “I need you right now. We need each other. Pull yourself together or it’s over.”

  “It’s already over.”

  “No.” I climb down from the chair, my body still lethargic from the earlier medication. I take Dallas’s hands in mine, trying to draw her back. Trying to wake her up. “We survived The Program before,” I say. “We can do it again. Do you know who I saw? Lacey—she’s here.”

  This seems to invoke mild interest in Dallas’s expression. Her dark eyes widen, a slight curve in her lip. “She’s alive?”

  I nod emphatically, hiding my despair at Lacey’s actual condition. “She is,” I say. “And now we just have to hang on. You have to hang on, Dallas, until I figure out what to do.”

  “I’m tired of fighting,” she whispers. “Cas was right—it’s too hard. I think I’d rather die.”

  Her sadness fills the room, fills me. I wrap my arms around her in a hug, absorbing her pain as best I can. Her hair no longer smells earthy; it smells of wet paper. Of something breaking down and dissolving. In a way Dallas is exactly where she belongs—she’s suicidal, and without this intervention . . . she’d be dead. I can’t let that happen.

  “You have to be stronger,” I say bleakly. She feels tiny in my arms, fragile. “You don’t get to quit. I won’t let you.”

  There’s a click behind me, and the door opens. The handler stands there, his face hidden in gray shadows. It’s time for me to leave. I pull back and put my hands on her cheeks, but I see she’s not there—not really. Her eyes are unfocused, unfeeling. It’s like Dallas is already dead.

  I’ll save us, I mouth, feeling the sting of tears. Just fight a little longer.

  The handler walks over and takes my arm; he isn’t rough, but firm. He sets me back in the chair, reattaching the restraints and keeping an eye on Dallas. She watches, but doesn’t have any reaction. She’s lost inside her head right now.

  I murmur my good-bye to Dallas as the handler backs me out of the room. We’re gliding through the hall, and I’m completely grief-stricken. Dallas is crazy, Lacey is erased; right now I’m the only one left standing, and ironically enough, I’m strapped down to a wheelchair. I can’t wait around for James or Realm to show up and rescue me. I’ll have to gather information, explore this facility, and figure out how to get out of here. I know what The Program wants from me: complacency. I’ll need to brush up on my acting skills.

  “Any chance you could take me on a tour?” I turn to the handler, asking as sweetly as possible. There’s a small tug of a smile on his lips as he flicks a quick look in my direction. He has hazel eyes, not remarkable or arresting like James’s, but they seem kind. He’s definitely more human than the other handlers I’ve seen—with the exception of Kevin.

  “It’s a little late for guided tours,” he says in that same soft voice. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  I straighten up, disappointed but not completely deterred. I’ll block out the sadness, get rid of the emotions. I was telling Dallas the truth. I will save us.

  I have to.

  * * *

  There is quiet humming when I open my eyes. The morning sun filters in the surely sealed window of my room. I blink quickly and then turn to see Nurse Kell sitting in a chair next to my bed, knitting, of all things. I watch her, a bit disoriented, before I clear my voice to talk.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  She doesn’t glance up, but the humming stops as the clicking of the metal needles continues. “I was letting you sleep in,” she says. “You looked so tired yesterday.”

  I clench my teeth but then remember my promise to myself the night before. I have to play along. “Yes, well,” I say reasonably, “it could have been the medication you gave me.”

  She stops and lowers her needles. “I suppose. But maybe we won’t need them this morning. Dr. Beckett would like to see you.”

  “Okay. But any chance I can get out of these restraints on a permanent basis? They’re rubbing my wrists raw.”

  Kell’s face flinches and she looks down toward my arms. “Poor thing,” she says, examining the skin. “I’ll check on your progress and see what I can do. The answer will be up to you, of course.”

  It’s so hard to keep my sarcastic tongue from lashing out at her. Because if it was up to me, not only would I not need to be tied down, I wouldn’t be in this horrible place. I want to spit in Nurse Kell’s face, tell her how cruel she is. I just lower my head.

  “I’ll try my best.” I sit there passively, but inside I’m boiling over. “Why do you do this, Kell? What’s in it for you?”

  She seems genuinely surprised by the question, and sets her knitting aside. “I’m saving lives. I’ve even saved yours once.”

  Does she really think that? I look her over, seeing that she does. Her round face, her short, curled red hair isn’t sinister. She could be someone’s doting grandmother. “You know what they’re doing to us,” I say, my facade falling away. “They’re changing us against our wills. They’re ruining our lives.”

  Nurse Kell’s small green eyes weaken. “I know you think that, honey,” she says, “but you’re wrong. I’ve been a nurse for thirty years, and nothing, nothing could have prepared me for what happened when the epidemic started. I don’t think you realize—”

  “I lived through it,” I interrupt.

  “Yes, you were sick and lived through it. Which means you never saw it clearly. Those infected have thoughts that are skewed and false. I pulled a butter knife out of a fifteen-year-old’s throat. That’s when The Program decided spoons were a better option in the cafeteria. I got on a chair and cut the sheet a thirteen-year-old hung herself from, spirals carved with her nails into the soft flesh of her forearm.” Kell’s cheeks glow pink and she leans closer. “I buried two grandchildren in the past year, Sloane. So don’t assume that I don’t know about the epidemic. I know it far better than you do. I’m just a person willing to do what I can to stop it.”

  I’m speechless. She’s a human being after all. “Why are you at this hospital?” I ask finally. “Why did you request to be my nurse here?”

  She smiles and reaches to brush my hair behind my ear. “Because I’ve seen where you started—I saw the darkness in your eyes. I’m not going to give up on you until you’re well again.” Her expression tells me she thinks this is a noble cause and that I should be grateful. Maybe if they weren’t my memories she helped erase, I’d see her good inte
ntions.

  Inside I’m screaming, Thank you for ruining my life! I can barely keep my voice steady when I murmur, “Thank you for saving me,” instead.

  * * *

  After our heart-to-heart, Nurse Kell helps me dress. I’m in a fresh pair of yellow scrubs with fuzzy slipper socks when she calls in the handler. He’s the one from last night, and my anxiety eases slightly, even though I’m not entirely sure why. He could be just as horrible as all the rest.

  “Asa,” Nurse Kell calls to him as he pushes in the wheelchair. “Can you bring Sloane to see Dr. Beckett? He’s expecting her.” The handler doesn’t respond, but he does take my hand to help me into the chair, an unusual show of kindness that catches me off guard.

  “It’ll all be better soon,” Nurse Kell says as she gently straps down my wrists. Then she steps back, and Asa steers me from the room before I can respond.

  The handler is gliding me through the halls once again, like a continuation from last night, but this time our pace is slower. He’s taking his time. There are several patients walking freely, but none of them is Lacey. I look for her, both dreading and needing to see her. To see what’s left of her.

  “I want to show you something,” Asa says quietly, pushing the button that opens a set of double doors—ones that don’t lead to the therapy wing. I glance over my shoulder at him, trying to discern why he’d be sneaking me around. He reminds me of Realm, so I don’t argue. We begin down a quiet wing where the white walls fade to a dusty gray.

  “Any chance this is the way out?” I ask, trying to lighten the heaviness that’s fallen on his posture. Asa doesn’t look at me, only straight ahead.

  “Not exactly.”

  My heart thumps hard, and I face front again. My ease is starting to evaporate, quickly replaced with anxiety. Asa’s pace slows as we approach another set of doors. “This is where they keep them,” he murmurs.

  “Them?” It’s obvious this part of the hospital isn’t in regular use. It’s quiet—mausoleum quiet—and the air smells lightly of urine. Fear is about to get the best of me and I begin to tug on the restraints, subtly at first, but then more aggressively. I don’t know where he’s taking me. I don’t know what’s happening!

  And then suddenly we stop. We’re in a large room—much like the leisure room, but instead of distractions and card games, there are a few scattered wheelchairs with people in gray scrubs. They’re all facing a window, or in one case, facing a black-and-white painting on the wall. Several of them have a white patch over their left eye.

  “What’s going on?” I ask in a shaky voice.

  “Doctors found that color disturbs them this soon after surgery,” Asa murmurs. “Noise, too. They keep them isolated until their minds are a bit steadier.”

  I spin around in the chair, the pressure on my wrists enough to make me wince. “Are you saying these people have been lobotomized?”

  Asa nods, meeting my gaze. “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Sloane. This is what this facility does. You’re one of the untreatable—this is what’s going to happen to you.”

  The world starts to close in on me, and I search the room once again, trying to make sense of it. Although lobotomy was always a threat, I didn’t know it was definite. I never pictured it like this. I don’t think I believed it could happen to me. “But I’m cooperating,” I say in a small voice. “I’m telling them—”

  “They’re extracting the information they need, and then you’ll end up here. They all do.”

  I blink and feel a warm tear slip over my cheek and drip onto my thigh. I’m stunned, horrified, traumatized by what Asa is showing me. I don’t know what to do. I’m so goddamn afraid, I can’t think.

  “You have about a week,” Asa says, “before they’ll bring you down here. The longer you can hold out on the information, the more time you buy yourself. I just wanted you to know the stakes, Sloane.”

  A week. I have my life for one more week. How does someone process this information without spiraling into complete madness? What does he expect me to do? I can’t just bust myself out. This is almost like another form of torture.

  “Why did you bring me here?” I murmur, staring again at the backs of heads, the slumped shoulders, the empty souls.

  “There’s someone here I thought you should see.”

  James. I try and leap from the chair, searching for him, but I am immediately pulled back by the restraints as they bite into my skin. Please, no. Please.

  Asa bends down, his cheek close to mine as he reaches past me, pointing to one chair across the room. From the profile I can see it’s an old man, and I sputter out a relieved cry because it’s not James. The handler turns, the bristle of his scruff tickling my skin.

  “They’ve crushed the rebellion,” he whispers. “But James and Michael Realm got away, and now any hope of ending  The Program lies with you and your friends. I wanted you to know how little time you have left to figure out how.”

  James is okay. Oh my God, James got away. But my solace is short-lived as I stare straight ahead at the man in the chair. I recognize him. “Arthur?” I ask, my voice cracking over his name.

  Asa stands and pushes me closer to the doctor. I’m in disbelief as I study him, his gray beard, his wrinkled skin. He has a patch over his eye and there’s a thin line of drool from his lip to the chest of his gray scrubs.

  I start to cry. “Arthur?” I call again, hoping he’ll just snap out of it and look at me. But he doesn’t react at all. He stares at nothing, seeing nothing. Knowing nothing. Arthur Pritchard is dead and his body is left behind to rot. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” I whimper. “I’m sorry they did this to you.” I flex my fingers as if I can reach out and touch him, but Asa backs the chair away.

  “We have to go,” Asa says solemnly. I watch Arthur the entire way to the door, wishing I would have done everything differently. Because what hope do I have now? What hope could I possibly have when The Program has lobotomized its creator?

  CHAPTER THREE

  ASA SAYS NOTHING AS HE parks my wheelchair in the center of Dr. Beckett’s office, leaving me there alone. My entire body is shaking, horrified by the image of Arthur Pritchard emptied out. He’s no longer a factor in our future. He has none. That’s going to be me in a week unless I figure out what to do.

  Is that what happened to Lacey? Was she like Arthur? Is she empty? Fresh tears threaten to brim over, but I sniffle and try to blink them away. My wrists are still tied down, so I won’t have a way to wipe my face before Dr. Beckett arrives. I need a plan. And I need one fast.

  The door opens behind me, and I take a deep breath and wait as the doctor comes to the other side of his desk, studying me as he walks. He looks the same as he did before, except now that I know the extent of The Program, I’m truly afraid of him.

  “Hello, Sloane,” he says good-naturedly. “How did your talk with Dallas go?”

  Dallas. She probably has less time than I do. Who knows, they could have lobotomized her already this morning. “It went well,” I say, offering a pressed-lip smile. “She’s sick, but not beyond your help.”

  Dr. Beckett nods to himself, taking a seat as he seems to think over my words. “Is that your expert opinion?”

  I don’t like his sarcasm, but I hold back. “I’m not an expert, but I’ve seen depression. I know Dallas wants to live, deep down. I think you can save her.”

  “Interesting.” The doctor opens my file again, his pen scratching quickly onto the white papers clipped down. “You seem to have had quite a change of heart since yesterday. What can I attribute this miraculous reversal to?”

  “Nurse Kell,” I lie. “She told me why she asked to be my nurse and why she’s part of The Program. What can I say? It resonated.”

  Beckett laughs and pushes his papers away from him. “That so? Well, Sloane,” he says, “you’ll excuse me if I don’t buy into your change right away. Authentic or not, we take therapy very seriously and we can’t just accept your word for it. We have to co
ntinue, and the way I see it, you have two choices: You can voluntarily give up your memories, or we can take them. Now, I know that neither may seem like a good option, but I promise you—the first one is better.”

  He’s right. I might have thought his threat empty, or at least had some reason to think I could outsmart him, if I hadn’t seen for myself. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get out of here,” I tell the doctor. “On that you have my word.”

  “I’m so very happy to hear that. Because we need your help tracking down Michael Realm.”

  “W-what?” I stammer. He can’t expect me to give up Realm—even if I did know where he was, he’s with James. I have to protect them.

  “Yes, Michael is a friend of yours from your time in The Program. Actually”—he smiles—“it says here it was a little more serious than that. Seems Mr. Realm has gone off the grid since then, but he’s not really allowed to do that, you see. He’s under contract.”

  An icy shiver trickles down my spine. “What do you mean ‘contract’?”

  Dr. Beckett seems taken aback. “You don’t know? He didn’t tell you while you were together on the run?” When I don’t answer, partly because I don’t want to admit being with Realm, and partly because I think I know what the doctor is about to say. Somehow—I know.

  “Michael Realm is a handler, Sloane. An embedded handler who was assigned to help erase you, and then later, assigned to track you and the rebels down. Only, he must have gotten caught up in your cause, or more likely, gotten sick. We need to find him before he harms himself.”