Disorder

by Martha Adele

  I nod. No words escape my mouth. It is all I can do not to lean back onto the small bed, close my eyes, and enjoy the sense of peace that I so desperately needed.

  “Have you found yourself having to fight off any urges you haven’t had before? Such as physical harm toward others, yourself, or anything you could get your hands on?”

  I nod.

  “Have you been having trouble with uncontrollable twitching or convulsions?”

  I nod.

  “Where?”

  The relief I feel is something I want to take advantage of. I have no desire to talk and ruin it. I have no desire for it to go away or wear off.

  I don’t want to talk, but I don’t want to point, so I stay quiet.

  “Can you speak?”

  I nod and realize I have to speak in order to help these people out, in order to help myself out.

  “Eyes. Arms. Neck.” I take a breath and work up enough energy to continue. “Legs. Feet. Hands.”

  “So everywhere?” the doctor responds.

  I shake my head. “My back was fine.”

  The nurse with the clipboard chuckles and makes a few notes.

  Dr. James goes on to ask me a few more questions about if I have lashed out recently and how I felt during the episodes. Toward the end of all of the questions, the medicine they gave me begins to wear off as he explains that BPD can be different for everyone. Some people find that they have trouble twitching. Some don’t. Some people find they can’t control themselves or their thoughts. Some don’t. Some have a large variety of symptoms. Some don’t. Dr. James continues to say that with the medicine, I can become the master of my disorder.

  As he continues blabbing, I continue wishing for more of that medicine.

  The nurse smiles at me and exits the room, leaving the doctor and me alone. Still sitting on the bed, I listen to Dr. James speak as he and his rolling chair squeak over to me. “All right, Mr. Beckman, before we let you go, we need to go over some things.”

  I nod to him and cross my arms.

  “First, let me ask you, are you okay with the medicine we just gave you? Did it help you feel more relaxed or more tired?”

  “Relaxed.”

  “Good!” He smiles. “Here in Bergland, for those who have certain disorders at certain levels, we have a prescription vial system.”

  I can’t help but shoot him a perplexed look. As the medicine wears off, my ability to react seems less inhibited.

  “What I mean by that is we provide portable vials like these”—he lifts the empty vial that he used on me earlier off the counter and wiggles it in the air—“to those who need it. What we will do for you is give you a certain amount of vials at a time. When you run out, you can come get more from us.”

  He stands up and sticks the empty vial in one of his pockets. “Whenever you feel like the BPD is getting out of hand, you can stick the flat side of these tubes onto your thigh, and a needle will come out and inject you with all of the medicine inside of it.” The doctor opens the door and ushers me out. He hands me a set of folded light-blue and gray clothes and tells me that they are mine to keep.

  Dr. James hands me a bag with another set of the same clothes, along with my old clothes that I wore through the woods. After I go to the restroom and change into the new clean clothes, we weave through the office and past other observation rooms.

  We approach the front desk, and Dr. James smiles at the lady typing something into her holographic keyboard. “Good evening, Ms. Lansley.”

  “Good evening, Dr. James! Who might this be?” She pauses for a moment and turns to me. Her bright red lipstick and overuse of makeup begin to make me uncomfortable the longer I look at it. Her eyelash goop has clumped up and stuck to her eyelid, and her eyebrows look so painted on that all I think I need to do to get rid of them is wipe them with a rag.

  The doctor smiles again and pats me on the back. “This is Samuel Beckman. I do believe that Alice brought out his chart.”

  Ms. Lansley pulls a clipboard out of a pile of clipboards and sings out, “Here it is!” She begins typing into her keyboard once again. I follow her gaze to a holographic screen that seems to be changing too quickly for me to understand.

  There are so many holograms in this office that I begin to doubt that the desks and pictures on the wall are really there. I slide my hand onto the counter just to make sure.

  It’s real.

  “All right,” Ms. Lansley tells us. “I will go get you your prescriptions. One moment please.” She gets up and leaves her desk, leaving me with the doctor.

  For a moment, it’s quiet. Other than the sound of pages flipping behind us in the waiting room and the sound of fingers hitting their desks, it’s quiet.

  Dr. James slides his hands into his jacket pockets once again. “I hope you find yourself at home here.”

  I turn back to him and give a half-life smile. “Thanks.” The quiet resumes.

  So many questions are running through my mind. I can’t seem to sort through them. I can’t even seem to fully understand half of them. My mind is scrambled.

  I force out a question. “Is there anything I need to know? About Bergland?”

  The doctor seems pleasantly surprised. He smiles at me and bobs his head. “Well, I guess the main thing is that we all want what’s best.”

  I nod, and the desk lady returns with a small black metal briefcase. She slides it over the desk to me, along with a clipboard.

  “I need you to sign here on this contract stating that whenever you come in for more vials, that you will bring your briefcase.” She points with her pen to what seems like every other sentence and explains what the contract states, but I get stuck observing her face. Her skin seems to be covered in chalk, a sort of chalk that doesn’t match the color of the rest of her body. The colored chalk stops at her jawline and makes the rest of her body seem much darker in comparison. “This also insures your briefcase if it is stolen, misplaced, or broken. Each briefcase has a serial number on it. Yours is right here.” She points to the number on my case and then hands me a pen. “Please sign right here.”

  I sign.

  She takes the clipboard and hands me my case. “Your code for the case is 7629. Go ahead and put one or two in your pockets for quick and easy access. Please use these responsibly, and if you ever need anything, just let us know!”

  I nod to her and write down the number on my hand. The lady notices and hands me a sticky note with the code instead. I keep both, just in case.

  “Thank you,” I mutter.

  Dr. James walks me out of the office and into the hallway that is open and as large as my town square. The roof above us is glass, and we can see the second floor. People walk over the glass, and beams hold them up like it is nothing new. For them, I am sure it isn’t; but for me, it is wild.

  I see Major Mason, Mavis, and Logan, all standing around an abstract statue of iron rods twisted and mangled around each other in the middle of the room. Mavis and Logan are both wearing the same sort of new clothes that I am as they all talk. Mason on one side and Mavis with Logan on the other. Logan stands slightly in front of Mavis with his arms crossed, mimicking Mason’s stance, almost as if he was trying to be intimidating. Mavis is holding a briefcase, just like mine, and watching the boys talk. I can tell Mavis wants to say something but is holding back.

  The doctor pats me on the back as I take a deep breath. “Do you know where you are going?”

  I nod and point over to the gang. Dr. James nods back to me. “All right. Good luck. Come back and see me whenever you want.”

  I doubt I will be coming back, but I give a polite smile back to him anyway; then I make my way over to Mavis and Logan.

  Mavis

  Beside me, Logan continues questioning Mason. “So what about you?”

  Smug. That’s all I can see when I see Mason smile. T
hey mimic each other’s stance. Crossed arms, cold stare, and feet aimed at each other.

  “What about me?” Mason chuckles.

  “Do you have any disorders? Like us?”

  Mason squeezes his lips together and focuses his eyes on Logan. Before he has the chance to answer, Sam approaches the group.

  Sam mumbles out, “Hey.”

  I turn to him and can’t help but smile. “Hey.”

  I hope he’d smile back, but Sam ignores me and makes his way over to Logan and me without another word.

  Logan eases up and turns back to Sam. “What did they say?”

  “BPD,” Sam answers.

  Logan and I exchange a confused look while Mason behind us sighs. “I’m sorry, Mr. Beckman.”

  Sam shrugs back. “It’s fine. They gave me these.” He lifts his case, the same case I have. “They said to take them whenever I needed.” The group is silent for a moment before he glances down at my case. “I guess they gave you the same news.”

  I nod. Another moment of silence passes. Mason waits a moment before chiming in, “All right. Are you guys ready for a quick tour?”

  I feel a small gurgling in the center of my stomach as Sam shrugs at Mason’s question. The gurgling is followed by an eruption of a violent loud growl in the same area of my stomach.

  Mason is taken aback by the magnitude of the outburst and chuckles. “Whoa, let’s start with the cafeteria.”

  After the meeting with Emily Hash, we were all given more water. The water was refreshing and as wonderful as it could have been, but it wasn’t enough. The pain I am dealing with from the hunger is excruciating, but I don’t want to complain. I am just happy that someone finally heard one of my stomach’s overbearingly loud growls.

  Mason leads us to one of the small flying rooms, what he calls an “elevator,” and we all pile in.

  Logan, never making eye contact with Mason, continues with his earlier statement. “You never did answer my question.”

  Mason reaches up and rubs his chin.

  “Do you have any disorders?” Logan repeats.

  Mason lowers his hand, and the elevator doors opened, leading us into another hallway with stone walls and a few doors here and there.

  “Not really, but that doesn’t mean anything.” Mason clears his throat and asks us to follow him out. He senses our confusion in the silence and continues, “Just because I am not medically diagnosed with a disorder doesn’t mean that I am perfect. I feel that everyone, in some way, shape, or form, has some sort of mental disorder. Whether it be mild or major, we all have our own problems.”

  In this moment, I have two thoughts: one of them being that Mason is lying in order to gain our trust, and the other being that he is actually telling the truth.

  We have no way of knowing what he is really thinking; so we follow him up some stairs, through some halls, and into a large and empty room with tables lined up throughout. There is a large square column in the middle of the room and the tables. It is about the size of the first elevator we got in and painted the same color as the rest of the room, a grayish blue. The tile floors in this room match the ceiling in its blandness, but not color. The floors are white tiles while the ceiling is made up of gray paneling.

  Mason continues his marching and allows his voice to boom through the room. “Follow me, and I can get Sarah to get you guys some food.” We follow him to the sound of pots and pans rattling. Mason calls out, “Sarah!” His voice echoes through the room and bounces off the walls. “Hey!”

  We turn the corner to find another set of counters with a set of glass panels over empty silver buckets and a large lady bent over, storing pots underneath a counter in the back. She sings out “Dinner is over!” in a way that I have only heard from Bestellen officials. The accents are shockingly similar. Never before have I ever heard someone other than officials or Metropolis inhabitants speak with such an accent.

  We stand and wait on her, looking around and observing our surroundings. Sam and I look over to each other and share a silent expression of “What are we waiting on?”

  The woman pushes herself up to a standing position using the steel counter and turns to look at us with a surprised expression. “Cole! Who are these lovely young kids?”

  She hobbles over to us, and Major Mason chuckles, replying, “These ‘kids’ just came from Bestellen, believe it or not.” Sarah’s eyes grow, and her jaw drops as Mason asks her for some food for us.

  Sarah turns on her heel and makes her way over to the large steel refrigerator. “Of course! Anything for these poor brave souls.” She pulls the doors open and disappears behind them. “How long have they been out there? They need some meat on those bones! But at the same time, I doubt that stuffing them would be the best thing … Maybe I could …”

  She turns around with a large tub of some sort of purple fruit cut into little bits. Sarah pops off the lid and smiles down at the fruit. “Ah, you should enjoy these.” She pulls out a few slices and hands one slice to each of us. “Go ahead and try some. I will go and get some plates.”

  The three of us are too hungry to question what we are eating. Sarah fixes each of us a plate full of slices, and we all sit down to eat. I feel my stomach start to reject the new food, but I don’t care. I pile each piece in as fast as I can, producing an odd gurgling feeling that I have felt multiple times before. I have gone days and days without eating before, but I have never had to go that long without food and do that many acts of physical exertion. We walked for miles and miles, we climbed trees, and we ran for the last two days—and without food? That is a ridiculous amount of calories expended with no promise of their return.

  After minutes of nonstop eating by the three of us, Mason speaks up. “Emily will be sending me your sleeping arrangements tonight. Until then, I can take you guys up when you are done eating and show you around the sleeping quarters.” He goes on to explain that their sleeping quarters are arranged based on gender, marital status, superiority, and career. For example, families bunk together. As Mason tells us what our sleeping arrangements will be, I see Sam take a break from shoveling food to crack open his case and sneak one of his vials into his pocket. He closes his case immediately and turns back to his food like he hadn’t ever stopped eating.

  Sam sees me staring at him and gives me as much of a closed-mouth smile as he can without letting food spill out of his cheeks. I chuckle as Mason tells me that I will be bunking with a few girls from the age of eighteen to twenty-one. The maximum number of residents per room is seven people, but the average is five. There is a dorm head for each section, along with coordinators. Everyone, by this age, usually knows what they are to be doing every day; but Sam, Logan, and I are all an exception.

  Cole, after thanking Sarah for the food, takes us all to one of the bunks’ hallways. People around our age crowd the open way and mingle as if this is something they do every night. I look around to see women taller than me, shorter than me, stouter than me, but none skinnier than me. I feel like I stick out like a sore thumb. Yes, I come from a place where eating more than two meals a day is unheard of, but that doesn’t mean I am any less than them.

  At least that is what I have to keep telling myself.

  My dad would say differently. He used to always criticize my weight. He thought that my being so skinny made him look bad, not that he ever helped bring home food. Compared with most of the other people in Bloot, I am a very healthy-looking individual. If it wasn’t for Derek showing me how to hunt, I know for a fact that neither my dad nor I would be alive. The only sort of food my dad ever brought home was distilled grain mash. I brought home meals at least three times a week, whether it be squirrels, rabbits, or larger game like the occasional deer.

  Considering hunting is illegal in Bloot, bringing home a deer is not an easy task. You have to carry it through the woods, sneak it past any and every official, make sure you go nowher
e near any security camera, and ensure no one sees you with it. Word travels fast in Bloot; one blabbermouth will spread the word to all, and next thing you know, you will have twenty starving mill workers at your door begging for food.

  Before Mom and Steven, my brother, passed away, we had at least one piece of food a day. Mom brought in enough labor for one meal for each of us a day, while Dad’s labor brought in enough for a few meals a week. Usually, Dad used his credits to bring home alcohol against Mom’s wishes. He claimed that his “juice” was the only way he could handle living in Bloot.

  He would complain all day long about Bloot and how privileged all the other states were. “The constant state of destitute that Meir keeps us in is … horrid.” Dad wouldn’t say “horrid.” He had a large reservoir of harsh words he would rather use. Mom used to beg him not to be so harsh with his words in front of Steven and me, but he wouldn’t listen.

  He wouldn’t listen.

  He never listened.

  My train of thought is interrupted by Yate speed walking through a few people and over to Mason. He straightens up and murmurs something to Mason that I can’t make out.

  “Okay,” Mason answers. “Kids, I have to go. I should be back shortly. Until then, go socialize. Make yourselves at home.” They turn and make their way through the sea of people and out of sight.

  The three of us stand awkwardly, watching the other Berglanders mingle.

  “So,” Sam chuckles, “um, how do you guys feel about all of this?”

  Still in disbelief at what has happened in the last few days, I shrug. Sam continues staring into the crowd while Logan and I exchange a nervous look.