“Do you need to lie down before your shot?”
I offer a shaky smile. “No, I’m fine. Just nerves, I think. I guess I’m still not used to needles.”
“If you’re sure.” I don’t redact my statement, so he proceeds with the shot. When he’s finished, he disposes of the needle and empty ampoule, sets the empty syringe aside, and faces me. “Would you like to wait in here or the waiting room?”
“Waiting room, please.” I stand from my seat on the bed but falter as my feet touch the ground. I right myself before I topple to the floor, then stand, swaying as I bring my hand to my forehead.
Dr. Grand comes to me, eyes wide with concern. I’ve never seen such a departure from his normally vacant expression. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.” My words are choppy, strained, as I stumble to the waiting room. “I’m lightheaded. Water.”
He runs to the water dispenser next to the desk where he fills a paper cup, then hands it to me. I drink it back in a single gulp, so he fills another. “You should sit,” he says.
I look at the chairs, then around the room. My chest heaves, my breathing growing shallow. “I need air,” I gasp, fanning my face. “A window.”
“There are no windows.” Dr. Grand waves his hand, indicating the walls around us.
“Dr. Shelia’s office.” I sway again, then gasp for air. “She has a window. She opens it for me when I get like this.”
He doesn’t respond at once. My heart is racing. He knows. He knows I’m lying. Finally, I hear a sigh. “I suppose I can let you in there.”
I inhale a wheezing breath. “Please.”
He leads me to the closed door leading to Dr. Shelia’s office. I continue to sway, eyes closed, listening to Dr. Grand sliding his badge against the keypad, hearing the opening of the door. I stumble into the room and make my way to the far wall, where I lean next to the window. As Dr. Grand opens it an inch. I lurch forward, letting the air fill my lungs.
“Do you feel better?” he asks after a few minutes.
“A little. Can I just lay in here until Dr. Shelia gets in?” It’s a long shot. I know he’s going to refuse. Of course he’ll refuse.
He doesn’t answer immediately. “Fine.”
I press my lips into a tight line to hide my surprise as I shuffle to the couch and sink into it, tossing my arm over my eyes.
“I should take your vitals.”
“No,” I groan. “I just want to be left alone. Please.”
He hovers before me, and I am certain he’s going to insist. This isn’t going to work. There’s no way it will work. He sighs. “Very well.”
I don’t open my eyes until I hear his footsteps enter the hallway. Several minutes pass before I sit and hazard a glance at the door. He left it open, but I don’t see him waiting in the hall. I watch for another few minutes before I spring toward the desk. With trembling fingers, I reach into my jeans pocket and retrieve the disk. I set it next to the touch sensor. It’s almost exact in shape and size. With a deep breath, I place the disk over the sensor. Nothing happens.
I press my thumb over the disk.
The keyboard hologram illuminates, followed by the screen projection, which is nothing more than a blank, blueish glow. My mouth falls open. I glance at the door again, then place my finger at the center of the screen, like I’ve seen Dr. Shelia do many times before. The lack of sensation when I touch the hologram surprises me. It’s been years since I’ve used a hologram device myself. I’m so used to glass beneath my fingers these days.
The screen responds, goes from pale blue to a pale yellow with numerous bright icons. My heart is racing as my eyes try to devour as much information as I can. What am I looking for? She said she kept the video with my files, so there must be something with my name on it in here. I look everywhere but see no search option.
I glance at the door again. Sweat is beading at my brow, pooling beneath my armpits as I read and reread the names of the icons again and again. Think. Think! When I was an Elite, how did we navigate these types of computers? I close my eyes, think back to the one year of Elite schooling I had. I try to place myself in my memories. How would I have searched?
I open my eyes, place two fingers in the middle of the hologram and flick them outward. The screen blurs and a search bar opens. I seek out the correct keys on the keyboard, spell my name. Enter.
A file icon pops up. I click it open. More file icons. I read the titles beneath them. Background. Probationary sentence. Contact. Parents. I swallow the lump in my throat and read the next. Appointment notes. Medications. The last file is unlabeled.
Another glance at the door.
I click the icon.
The screen is swallowed by an image of my face, multiplied from six different angles. Then one of the angles shifts to the vaguely familiar face of my probation officer, Marcus Smith, and another shifts to Kori Wan. There’s no sound, which I’m grateful for. I can’t attract any attention to what I’m doing. At least not until I find the proof I’m looking for. My eyes dart from one image to the other, then watch as the images again fill with different angles of my face. A shiver crawls down my spine. There’s something unnatural about seeing myself on video. Like it isn’t me at all.
The footage follows me as I leave the office and enter the dark streets. I know what will happen next. I’ll stop at the corner, check my reader. Find my apartment for the first time. Try to sleep. Wake up the next morning and explore my neighborhood before coming here for my first appointment with Dr. Shelia. I don’t need to see any of that. I need to see the night I met Darren.
I touch the screen, seeking the control icons. The date and time of the recording pops up on the bottom left. I touch the screen again, and a second hologram pops up and forward, partially overlapping the screen. I see the speed symbol and click it until the images move at maximum pace. I watch my first few days of my new life fly by, only slowing the speed to double when I recognize the date at the bottom left. August 17th.
I watch me walking down the dark streets, shoulders hunched, eyes seeking left and right. Darren was right when he did his impression of me that night. I look like a maniac.
I slow the speed again, returning it to normal pace, when I see myself pause. This is it! This is where I think I see my mom. I’m not surprised there is no sign of her, just an empty corner littered with garbage bags. I see myself cross the street, see the lights of the bus rounding the corner. My heart races. Here it is. Darren will jump in at any moment...
I watch as I freeze in the middle of the street. Then I leap away, crashing into the sidewalk where I lay still.
I can’t blink. All I can do is stare. Where is Darren?
Where the hell is Darren?
I see myself huddled on the ground, then watch as I rise, dust myself off. Half the images show a different angle of my face, eyes vacant as I stare. I’m mumbling something, but I can’t hear what I’m saying. The other images show my surroundings. I’m alone.
I glance at the door. With hands that shake like never before, I touch the control hologram, seek out the volume. I increase it just enough to hear what sounds like crazed muttering.
I shake my head. Rewind. Watch again. Listen.
Again, all I see is me. I hear the bus this time, and my squeal of fear as I leap away, hear myself whimpering as I huddle on the sidewalk.
I watch it again. Again.
Then I click the speed icon and watch what remains. Days and days go by. Days filled with me mumbling and muttering to myself. Sometimes I seem to be speaking out loud. Other times I’m sitting on my bed, staring at the opposite wall, eyes empty.
Sometimes I open my apartment door, but no one is there. I close it. Open it again. Close it. Sit back on my bed.
I watch myself work, ignore Molly, chat with Molly, stare at the wall while I’m at the sink. Watch as I steal a bag of leftover food from the kitchen after work. Watch as I fold laundry, chat with the other women, stare at what I folded. I watch myself
on the bus, my eyes fluttering closed, head landing on the shoulder of the stranger next to me. He shrugs until I move my head, and I stare out the window instead.
I watch myself on the rooftop, face toward the sky for hours at a time. Watch myself in bed, staring at the ceiling. Watch as I confront Mitchell. Watch as I run down an empty alley, then as I lead the enforcer to the abandoned laundromat.
The footage ends shortly after, and I watch it again. I increase the speed, then slow it back down, increase again, hoping something will change what I see.
It’s the same. More of the same. Same, same, same.
Crazy.
Insane.
This woman is not me. This can’t be me.
I don’t hear when Dr. Shelia comes in, don’t realize I’m sobbing, don’t hear that I’m screaming. I don’t feel my knees hit the floor or Dr. Shelia’s arms wrap around me. I’m shaking. Or she’s shaking. Or rocking. She’s rocking me.
And I’m falling apart, piece by piece.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I don’t know how much time has passed before I realize I’m lying on the couch in Dr. Shelia’s office, blotting tears from my face. Even without uttering a word, I can tell my throat is raw from sobbing. My mind is starting to clear, and with it comes renewed pain, horror.
Shame.
I close my eyes against the tears, but they don’t come. I’ve spent them all.
“Take all the time you need,” Dr. Shelia whispers.
I turn my head toward her, then my eyes fall to her desk. The disk Molly gave me is no longer there covering the touch sensor.
Dr. Shelia opens her hand, reveals the piece of metal in her palm. “Are you looking for this?”
I avert my gaze to the ceiling, heart beating high in my chest. She’ll report me now, I know it. I knew she would when she found out what I’d done, but I thought I’d have proof to throw back at her. Not this. Not this terrifying realization.
She closes her fingers over the disk. “I’m not going to ask where you got it.”
“When will they come for me?” My voice is high-pitched, nothing like what I’m used to sounding like. I hate how much it sounds like the girl from the video footage.
“When will who come for you?”
“The enforcers. Or peacekeepers.”
She leans forward. “I’m not turning you over to anyone. Not the enforcers, not the peacekeepers. I’m here to help you. I always have been. You’ve broken a major restriction in your probationary sentence by viewing your footage, not to mention hacking into my computer. But you aren’t well. You can’t be blamed for the measures you’ve taken.”
“Because I’m crazy.”
“I think it’s much more nuanced than that. You’ve gone through a major trauma, and as a result, you haven’t been sleeping. You’ve developed depression. This resulted in a neurochemical imbalance that has led to psychosis.”
“Sounds like the definition of crazy.”
“Let’s not focus on that part,” she says. “Let’s focus on why your psychosis developed the way it did. Are you ready for that?”
I shrug.
“We know what happened with your mom. We know the effect her death had on your mental health. Let’s explore this idea of Darren.”
I shudder, feel a twitch in my shoulder that makes me want to lash out with fury.
“Breathe, Claire.”
I’m shaking again, so I take a deep breath, then another. Another.
When I’m breathing easy, she continues. “You created this image of safety, of love. This image led you to deeper happiness, peace, and trust.”
But it wasn’t real. I can’t bring myself to say this out loud, though. The rage floods through me again, but I quell it faster this time.
“You see, Claire. You saved yourself from that bus. That was you. Yet, as we’ve already discussed, you hadn’t learned how to love yourself. You hadn’t accepted that your mother’s sacrifice was worth anything. That your life was worth anything. So your subconscious mind created a circumstance it was more willing to believe, and your conscious mind accepted it. It was easier to believe someone else saved you. But even then, the truth came out. The someone you created fell in love with you, and you loved him back. Do you know what that means? You loved yourself all along.”
Her words hardly make sense, so I don’t try to process them. Just listen.
She continues. “He only disappeared when your conscious mind was ready to accept the truth. That you are worthy of love. You didn’t need that buffer anymore. But your subconscious still rebelled. It wants to stay sick to protect you from something. It fears being healthy. Why do you fear being healthy?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know what any of this means.”
“That’s okay. We’ll take it slow. Forget all about Darren, for now. Start small. What’s the first thing that would happen if you got healthy?”
I deepen my breathing to keep the rage at bay. “I would...I don’t know. I would sleep.”
“And if you slept?”
“I’d feel better throughout the day, I guess.”
“And if you felt better?”
“I’d work better. Maybe I’d work more.”
“If you worked more?”
I frown. Where is she getting at? “I’d pay off my debts faster. I’d get off probation according to my original plan.”
“And then what?”
“I’d move up in the rungs. Work more. Eventually be a Select again.”
“Then what?”
“Then...I don’t know. I’ll get married, have kids, and die.”
“Do you want that?”
I open my mouth, but my words feel stuck in my throat.
“Let me put it another way. Why don’t you want to become a Select again?”
The words aren’t stuck after all. They are fighting to come out, but I won’t let them. Can’t let them.
“You can tell me, Claire.”
“Because I hate it! All of it. The whole system.” The silence that follows my outburst is deafening.
“Tell me more.”
“I don’t want to be a Select. I don’t want to be part of this game, this city, anything. It’s flawed, it’s broken, and I hate it. I’ll never beat it. I’ll never be an Elite. I’ll never be anything of worth to this system, and I hate that. My parents finally became something, and they were killed for it. Sure, it was an accident. But how does this system treat victims of such accidents, even victims of their esteemed Elite? By punishing them. It’s disgusting.” I’m gasping for breath, then go silent again, stunned by my tirade. These don’t sound like my words. They sound like Darren’s.
Then again, according to Dr. Shelia, Darren was me.
I fight the rage.
“It’s safe to feel that way. You aren’t the only one.”
I face her again. It takes all my willpower not to scowl. What would she know? She’s an Elite! But my rage isn’t meant for her. Not anymore. Not when she’s the only one who can help me.
“I was once a probationary, Claire,” she says. “Long, long ago. I was just a couple years older than you. I know what it’s like to feel like you are drowning beneath your probationary sentence and to feel like the system is against you. But I played the game, as you called it. I fought to move higher. Higher. Became a Select. Worked in tech. Made the right connections. Worked seven days a week to put myself through medical school. I’ve only been an Elite for ten years, but it happened for me. I was willing to do what it took to get here. That doesn’t mean I pushed myself to collapse like you’ve done. It means I played to my strengths and protected my weaknesses. The long game.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I know how you feel. I know that rage. I know what it feels like to want to give up, to let the darkness of your situation take you. You don’t want to try because you don’t see the point. Being a Select isn’t what you want, it’s what you thi
nk your mother wanted. And you don’t think you’ll ever be an Elite. But I want you to think bigger. As big as you can. That is how you’ll get out of this.”
Her words stir a flicker of hope inside, but it’s nothing more than a spark compared to the vast emptiness I feel.
Dr. Shelia flutters her hand dismissively. “I’m sorry if I’ve gotten carried away with this conversation. You can hardly see straight right now, I’m sure. I just care about you so much.”
Her eyes are glistening. How did I ever think she was against me? I swallow the lump in my throat.
“We will work on this,” she says with a smile. “I promise. You’ll be on the other side in no time.” She rises from her chair and I move to do the same, but she gives my shoulder a gentle press. “Rest as long as you like. I can even have Dr. Grand sedate you, if you’d like.”
A sense of warm relief washes over me at the thought of slipping out of consciousness. I never thought I’d actually desire the prick of a syringe. “Yes.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
When I return to the world of the living, I find Dr. Grand in Dr. Shelia’s chair. He helps me to sit, then checks my vitals like he does at the end of all my appointments with Dr. Shelia. The dim light coming in through the window tells me the sun is setting. “Is Dr. Shelia still here?”
“No,” he says. “She’s returned home. She wanted me to tell you she is going to be here every morning for your daily injection and has reserved her first hour of every day to speak with you.”
I feel a familiar rage ignite in my chest, but I breathe it away. Dr. Shelia isn’t the enemy anymore. She never was. “That’s probably for the best.”
“She also said you can message her anytime.” I’m struck by the flat tone of his voice, the slightest hint of a bitter edge. Perhaps it’s because she went home and left me in his care for the better part of a perfectly good Sunday. It was probably supposed to be his day off.
After he’s finished recording my vitals, he walks me to the lobby of the building. “Are you well enough to get home on your own?”
I nod. It isn’t like there’s anyone to contact. Molly, maybe. But I can’t face her. I can’t tell her that all her hard work to help me only made me realize I’m crazy. Then again...shouldn’t I be grateful for that? That I now know the truth?
Twisting Minds Page 16
