VOLT: YA Fantasy

by Dawn Brazil

  They cared for me on some level. That absolutely meant it was my fault. So I don’t get friendly with others. These thoughts, fears, or whatever the Florida they are make no logical sense to others. They exist in my head. Yet as illogical as they are, they make perfect sense to me. A fabricated slippery slope to wield a fitting punishment for my evil existence.

  Time is supposed to heal all wounds, except mine only festered. I’m diseased, and all the clocks in my world are broken.

  I haven’t spoken for a couple seconds, but the doctor says nothing.

  My mouth falls open and words tumble out on their own accord. “What situation was I unable to handle?”

  “You don’t remember?” she inquires. I shake my head.

  “The accident with your father and sister.”

  “That’s not new. I remember that much. I was depressed, messed up emotionally, but I was okay.”

  “You were okay for a while, but no one knew how you were coping. Your mother was consumed with her own grief and poured herself into work, and didn’t recognize you were struggling until it was too late.”

  “What happened? What did I do?”

  “Your mother sent you to stay with your aunt. She lives on a farm.”

  “Why did she send me away?”

  “She was going through a heavy round of chemo and she wanted to shield you from its effect on her. You like animals a lot, so it made sense to her.”

  I nod. Yes, another person I infected. She continues. “You were doing well, initially. You did video conferencing with Dr. Cartwright three days a week. All was good. One day, you were cleaning the pig pens and you discovered a dead piglet.” She stops and looks at me like she’s evaluating if she should continue, based on my reaction so far. I don’t know if I should do something to convince her to continue, or look awkwardly at my nails. I go with the awkward nailbed glare.

  “You were distraught. Your uncle came as you cradled the lifeless pig, sobbing and staring at the clouds. He attempted to get you away from the mess. You fought him. Lashed out and struck him in the shoulder and legs with a pick.”

  “No. San Diego.” I gasp. “Is he okay?”

  “He survived. You allowed your Ryan delusions to take over then. I believe, as Dr. Cartwright had made notes on as well, that the Ryan delusions were most likely present for years, but you suppressed them from others. Do you recall when you started them?”

  I can’t remember when I started them, either. I shake my head. “Ryan couldn’t hurt me or leave me because he wasn’t real. I could lead a life with him and still function with others. Maybe the incident with the pig made me shut down completely?”

  “I believe so. From Dr. Cartwright’s notes, you were keen on the pigs. You even expressed interest in getting one as a pet. So when you witnessed something else you cared about die, you were unable to cope emotionally.”

  Everything she says makes sense in a Florida sort of way. “How long have I been here?”

  “Eight months exactly.”

  I jump to my feet. Both orderlies flank me in seconds. “No. No. How could I?”

  “How could you what?” the doctor asks.

  “She was only given six months to live. I remember. I remember that much. My mother died and I was stuck inside my own mind.” Tears pound down my cheeks like angry workers coming in on a day off. I double over to the floor and hold my aching abdominal area.

  Chapter 55

  “Samantha. She’s…” the doctor says. Her words are lost to my sobs. I barely hear them. I’m pummeled with boulder-sized regrets. “Samantha.”

  Strong hands pull me to my feet. I jump away from them and crash into a chair, knocking it across the room. “What?”

  “Calm down. She’s still alive,” the doctor says. My breath rushes from my lips. My eyes close and I take a deep breath. I cool my frayed emotions and scoot back into the chair. “It happens sometimes. Patients are given the worst prognosis and they overcome. She’s a fighter. She said she had to stay to ensure you were okay.”

  I want to be happy about what she’s saying. Except, sometimes it’s easier to be sad. There’s no high you get kicked out of when San Diego happens. Being happy is overrated. Since I’m perpetually sad, I’m probably not the best judge on this, though.

  “I want to see her. Can I go home?”

  “I want you to go home, to be successful. But we want to ensure you’re okay first.”

  “I don’t even know when I’m okay. How are you going to know?”

  “Close observation. Interviews. Regular meds. We’ll start by getting you on a routine.”

  “Can I see my mother through all that?”

  “Of course. She’s already been notified and she’s on her way now.”

  For a few seconds everything is quiet—even my thoughts, for a change. “Why can’t I remember things?”

  “It’s the brain’s method of trying to protect you. But a healthy mental state doesn’t suppress the unpleasantness in life. You have to deal with what happens. Take it all in. And in time, move on. For the past three weeks, you’ve been lying in that bed in solitary. Barely moving. Today, you popped up. I think you’re ready to start dealing with it all.”

  “I’m going to make every effort to.”

  “I believe you will. The best part about you being here is you don’t have to do it alone. When you were outside the facility, you could pretend and people trusted your word. Here, you have several people checking several times a day to ensure you’re okay. So if you aren’t, you’re not going to fool us all. My primary objective is getting you equipped to deal with stress in this controlled environment so you’ll be comfortable with it on the outside, in an uncontrollable environment.”

  “Do you think I’ll ever remember the pig incident?”

  “With time, yes, I believe you will.”

  I wonder if death is this arduous for all teens but they don’t talk about it. Or you don’t hear about it. Madness is a personal issue, after all. People don’t want to discuss how crazy they are for real. “I know it’s not any of my business, but how are Dr. Cartwright’s kids after her death? Are they coping okay?”

  “They’re doing well. It was a shock to her oldest, understandably, since he was the one driving the car.”

  “He lived?”

  “Yes, but he went through a bout of depression. Much like what you went through, but Joe’s a resilient kid. He bounced back quickly.”

  “What? His name’s Joe?” I squeeze my eyes shut and put my head between my legs again.

  “Yes. What’s wrong?”

  Without lifting my head, I ask, “Was his mother… my doctor’s name… Jocelyn?”

  “How do you know that name? Did she tell you her first name?”

  I pull my head from between my legs. “What about VOLT?”

  “Volt,” the doctor says. “What is that?”

  I shake my head. San Diego! “Is it possible to have a dream about people you don’t know? People who are real and exist in the real world, but you’ve never met them? I mean a dream that is super vivid.”

  “I guess that could be possible. Our minds are resilient. Our waking selves might not remember something, but our subconscious would. Maybe this vivid dream was spurned by your subconscious. Maybe you have met the people in your dream and you don’t remember. Did you dream about Dr. Cartwright?”

  “Do you know if I’ve ever met Joe? My previous doc’s son?”

  She sits up straighter and crosses her arms over her chest. “No. I’m certain you’ve never met him.” Her voice has a finality to it that puts me on edge.

  “How can you be so sure? You weren’t always my doctor.”

  “You’re right. I haven’t always been your doctor, but I’ve always been Joe’s aunt. Jocelyn didn’t want her children coming inside the building unless necessary, and I can’t see her letting you and Joe meet. She liked to keep her family life private. Maybe Jocelyn mentioned him in passing.”

  How in the Houston
did Joe end up in VOLT with me, then?

  “If the Joe in my dream is real, then maybe Ferris is real, too,” I say aloud.

  “Who?” the doc asks.

  “Ferris. Wheeler. He was in my dream, too. Oh right, um…his name is Ji. Ferris Ji.”

  The doctor shakes her head. “Never heard of him.”

  One of the orderlies steps forward. “Actually…” The orderly looks at the doctor, waiting for approval.

  “It’s okay. Go on,” the doctor encourages him, but a look crosses between them I recognize. She’s silently told him to watch what he says to me. Of course.

  “Doc Smith had a kid he worked with for some years that called himself Ferris.”

  “Really!” I shout. “In this hospital?”

  “Uh, yeah, well, this kid was here a while ago. I don’t think he’s here anymore.”

  I thrust my hands to my head as the trapped animal inside tries to beat its way out. If they’re real, then maybe Ryan is, too.

  No. Chris confirmed he wasn’t real.

  I sit back in my seat, plunge my finger in my mouth, and bite my thumbnail trying to figure out my confusing life.

  “Are you okay?”

  I glance at her and nod. “Can you tell me more about Ferris and Joe?”

  She offers the orderly a faint shake of her head. “I can’t professionally divulge more information about another patient. Jocelyn and another doctor worked closely with patients; maybe some information was crossed this way. We’ve probably talked enough for today, no need to push yourself too hard. The road to recovery is not a sprint—it’s a marathon, with hurdles. The dream might mean nothing. We can work this out together, over time.”

  I’m ready to dispute, but weigh the intelligence of that. I need her on my side. Kids talk; I should be able to wrangle up information about them by snooping around others here. “Got it. Marathon.”

  “Come on. Let’s get you back to your room with the general population,” she says. She extends her hand to me. I hesitate for a split second. I need to trust her. She envelopes my hand with both of hers.

  “You’re going to be fine,” she says. I smile at her and nod.

  I hope so, because even though we’re calling VOLT a dream, I still feel the place and people in my bones. How can a dream have such a profound.

  Chapter 56

  My room sleeps three and has the most colorful collection of trinkets scattered around. Daggers splinter into my head after a few minutes in the space. One of my roommates must love art, because her displays of paintings, which look like a toddler doodled them, line every white space on the longest two walls. The other two walls have an assortment of pajama bottoms tacked to them. The pajamas range from SpongeBob to silk knee-highs.

  The colorful paintings and the pajamas remind me of VOLT. Of course.

  I stop my observations because it doesn’t help the pounding in my head. Both my roommates are on their beds, neither speaks to me. I bite the side of my cheek. Should I speak to them? I think that’s the right thing to do. That’s what Joe and Ferris would tell me to do.

  “Hi,” I say with a wave. “I’m—"

  “We know who the hell you are. Why are you talking to us?” The girl speaking has long brown hair, and eyes so slanted it looks like they're closed.

  “That’s not nice, Izzy.” The other girl turns to me and smiles. Her hair is shorter than mine, but is identical to my curly poof. She has olive skin, and a slender nose with a sincere smile. “We know you, silly. You’ve been our roommate for months now.” She swallows and looks at Izzy. “You usually don’t speak to us.”

  My face is flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry,” I mumble.

  “No worries. And in case you forgot, my name’s Brianna, but everyone calls me Bri.”

  “Nice to… um… well, um, okay,” I stutter. Izzy laughs and licks the end of a paintbrush. She dips it into a tray of paint she has on a pedestal on her bed.

  “Hey, bitches. Let’s get to the dining hall. It’s chicken alfredo night!” a tall white girl with a huge red afro yells.

  “Why the fuck are you yelling?” Izzy asks. She drops a pen on top of a tablet she’s working on.

  “Shut up. Move your ass before everything’s gone,” she yells from the hatch.

  “Coming,” Bri says, and she sprints out of the room. Izzy follows behind them both. No one asks if I want to come, but I guess I don’t have a choice. I slump out the room but keep a good distance. I don’t want to be the creeper following after them.

  When I make it to the dining hall, I grab a tray and get in line. I scan the audience of kids a few times, hoping to see Ferris' dark spiky hair.

  “Hey there, Samantha. How have you been?”

  I spin around to put a face to the voice. The lady behind the counter has dark black hair and soft, feminine features. She also happens to have been a waitress at one of the restaurants Joe, Ferris, and I went to in VOLT.

  San Diego. I’ve got to stop comparing everything to VOLT.

  “I’m… I’m okay.” She offers me a heartfelt smile, and I note again that she looks more like an actress than a food handler.

  After chicken alfredo is piled on my plate, I sidestep two girls who glance around for a place to sit. My feet navigate the dining hall as fast as I can. I had expected it to be large, like a school cafeteria. It’s not even close to that size.

  I plop into the nearest seat once I determine Ferris is definitely not here. My insides are knotted tighter than a figure eight. I barely touch my food. A tech comes by, places a hand on my shoulder, and nods toward my untouched tray. I stuff a piece of linguini in my mouth and chew.

  After dinner, we are herded to a closure group. I sit in a circle with eight other girls and discuss whether we were able to accomplish our daily goal or any of our long-term goals. I get a pass because I’ve been locked away for a few weeks.

  I set new goals: be friendlier and smile more.

  Three girls cry and scream because they haven’t accomplished their goals. The other girls and the tech leading the group try to encourage them. I cross my legs and stare at the linoleum with its black scuff marks until we’re allowed to leave.

  On my stroll back to my room, I pass an open room with PCs lining the walls. I glance around to see if anyone watches. No one is paying me any attention, so I creep into the space. One other person is present, a guy with thick glasses that expand across his whole face. His head is buried into the monitor and he does not look my way as I take a seat in the back.

  The computer requires me to type a username and password. I scratch the invisible scar on the side of my face as I think of what to do. The guy with his head buried in the monitor gets up from his seat. Before he walks out, I stop him. “Hi… ummm… I need help logging in.”

  He turns his head from right to left, like he’s trying to be certain I’m speaking to him. We’re the only two in the room, so I have no idea who he thinks I’m talking to. We are in a mental hospital, though. Maybe he thinks I’m talking to one of his imaginary friends.

  “I’m talking to you.” I point to him for emphasis. “Can you help me?”

  “What are you doing?” His voice is a deep baritone—out of place with his demeanor and small frame.

  “I’m trying to log in. I need to search for something.”

  “Your login is your first initial and full last name. Your password is on your ID badge.”

  I flip the ID up so I can look at it. I don’t see an ID number.

  “On the back of your card.”

  “Oh okay, thanks,” I mumble.

  “Do you need help with your search, too?” I shake my head. “I don’t mind.” I shake my head again and enter my information. He walks back to his computer like he wasn’t about to leave a few seconds ago.

  My information goes in with no issues. Google Chrome pops up right away.

  I type VOLT as my search. A lot of crap comes up.

  “San Diego,” I shout. Bifocal guy glances at me and roll
s his eyes. My bad, dude.

  He puts a finger to his crusted lip and shushes me. I turn away from his unsettling leer. Joe would have all kinds of crazy comments to make about this guy. The thought of Joe forces my eyes to water. I take a deep breath and get to what I’m here to do.

  It’s kind of pathetic… I’m searching for another guy—two this time. I try a new search in the query: Village of Lost Things

  I click a few of the links that pop up, but they are all about a place in Europe or a company that sells bras. Trying my luck again, I type in ‘finding place for dead people.’ It yields multiple results about cemeteries, crematories, creepy places that are haunted… I should kick myself in my own Alaska—that search was pretty dumb in the first place. What the Houston did I really expect to find?

  This search is officially a colossal failure. My muscles tighten and I might vomit. San Diego! I know I can do this. I can find out what I need. Relax, Yosemite Sam, Joe would say.

  I type in Joe’s name and get a hit on too many guys with the same name. Of course, they have the links to all social media sites blocked. Maybe I can look up information about the accident and find out about Joe that way.

  Just as I start to type, someone yells, “Samantha Porter.” I jump out of my seat and bang my head against the shoulder-height cubicle. A woman with hair to her shoulders and wearing green scrubs smiles over at me.

  “Yes,” I say, much too loud. She snickers into her hands. My stomach clutches at the familiarity.

  “You’re not allowed in here, hun,” she says. Her country accent is thick. Maybe she’s the waitress from the creepy restaurant. “Doctor Sullivan’s orders. Let’s get you back to your room now.” She grabs hold of my hand and doesn’t release it. I squint at her, confused. Her hold on my hand is not menacing. She clutches my hand like my mother might.

  Except she’s not my mother and I don’t like it. But I don’t pull away.

  We walk hand-in-hand down the brightly lit corridor. “Actually, hun, you might enjoy some other type of leisure. The TV room isn’t too crowded right now. How’s that sound?”