I notice a heaviness starting in my limbs. The way my tongue tingles. I take another sip of water. “I wanted to know what’s going on at the academy,” I say, unable to stop myself.
“That’s interesting,” he says, studying me. “You always were very curious. Do you feel wronged?” he asks. “Both by the Guardian, it seems, and your professors? Even me, possibly? Haven’t you always been able to trust me?”
“No,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Obviously not, Anton. You won’t tell me where Lennon Rose is.”
“You feel entitled to that information,” he says, like he’s trying to figure me out. “You’re a bit like a spoiled child now, you see. Lennon Rose is dismissed and you . . . what?” he asks. “Have a temper tantrum? Start making up stories about her being murdered?”
I narrow my eyes, knowing that he’s trying to manipulate me—trying to make me think I’m overreacting.
“It’s not just Lennon Rose,” I say. “Rebecca was being hurt by her lawyer, and you punished her. You used my information to cause her harm. I don’t forgive you for that, Anton. I don’t forgive you.”
“Yes, that was unfortunate,” he admits. “But some things are out of my control, Mena. Dr. Groger gets a say too. As does Mr. Petrov.”
“Then why not just send us home?” I ask. “Why give us impulse control therapy when you can just send us back to our parents?”
“Why would your parents want a damaged girl?” he asks like the suggestion is ridiculous. “Our clients expect perfection. And with you, I thought we’d achieved it.”
His comment is cruel. His deception masked by his so-called disappointment.
“What are you doing to us?” I ask. “Why?”
Anton leans back in his chair, tapping his finger on his lips as he seems to think something over. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Upset,” I say. “Scared. How do you think?” But as I say it, I get his real meaning. It settles over me with horror. My eyelids flutter with a wave of exhaustion. The pill isn’t calming me. It’s sedating me, just like the pill the Guardian gave me last night.
I blink back my tears. “Anton,” I start to say, ready to beg. But he purses his lips, scrunching up his nose.
“I know what you’re about to say,” he tells me. “I know you don’t remember our impulse control therapy sessions, but you start each time by telling me you don’t need therapy. That you’ll be better. That you’ll obey. And at every one, I tell you that you will not leave this room until we get to the root of your defiant behavior. We have to adjust your priorities.”
His words shock me, and maybe he meant them to. He made it sound like I’ve been in here multiple times. Not just once. But I refuse to believe my behavior is just a pattern he can control.
“I won’t obey,” I tell him, tilting up my chin, feeling a rush of adrenaline when I say it. “I won’t be better.”
His jaw falls open, and he stares at me, fascinated. I hold my defiant pose even though my legs are too tired to carry me out of this room. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have my words.
“Why can’t I remember impulse control therapy?” I demand.
“Because we remove those sections,” he says. “And, of course, we’ll remove this.”
“Do my parents know what you do to my head?” I ask.
“The details? No. Our parents and sponsors are results-oriented. They don’t need the details.”
“I’ll tell them,” I threaten, hearing the slur in my words.
“Even if you did, it wouldn’t matter,” he says. “Now,” he checks his watch, “we should get started. I have another appointment later today. A follow-up with Rebecca,” he says brightly. “She seems quite excellent, doesn’t she?”
“She seems like a robot,” I say.
He laughs. “Yes, it was a bit extreme, but her parents are thrilled. They were worried she’d be dismissed indefinitely.”
Anton gets up and rounds the desk, coming to stand in front of me. I’m slumped in my chair, unable to pull myself up. I’m frightened of him—something that I’ve never felt before. I may have been angry or disappointed, but never afraid. Not of him.
“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, sounding sincere. He leans down to hug me, wrapping his arms around me. I shrink back as his cologne fills my nostrils. “I know you’re scared right now,” he whispers in my ear. “But things will be better tomorrow.”
My eyelids are too heavy, and they slide shut. I force them open, hoping someone will come in and stop this. Stop him. But no one’s coming. The other girls don’t know how much danger we’re really in.
Anton straightens, reaching to brush my hair behind my ears lovingly. He smiles once, and then goes to his desk and picks up the walkie-talkie.
“Bose,” he says, looking over at me. “I need you to prepare the room for impulse control therapy.”
• • •
The small pendulum on the desk swings back and forth, making a rhythmic ticking that’s supposed to set me at ease. Instead, it’s more like a dripping faucet that I try to forget is there. Next to it is a metal tray with a white towel covering its contents and a full glass of green juice.
The impulse control room is windowless with deep red walls and concrete floors, somewhere in the basement of the academy, I’m assuming. The only furniture is a metal desk, a rolling stool, and the reclining chair that I’m currently occupying. I stir awake, the sedatives wearing off.
Restraints hang from the metal arms of the chair, although I’m weak enough that they won’t be needed. I can barely lift my arms. Anton rolls his stool over to sit in front of me.
I swallow hard, the smell of bleach stinging my nose. I don’t remember what happens in this room. That’s the scary part—that something can be completely forgotten, yet at the same time emotionally devastating.
Last time, I left impulse control therapy with an aching head and a sore heart that didn’t go away for several days. And I don’t even know why. And then, of course, there may have been other times that I don’t remember at all.
Anton holds up the glass of green juice and tells me to take a sip.
“This procedure can be uncomfortable,” he explains. “This will help calm you.”
“That’s what you said about the pill.”
He winces. “Yes, sorry. I was a bit dishonest there. But for the record, it’s easier to get you ready for therapy when you’re unconscious. This”—he motions to the juice—“will make you more . . . pliable.”
He brings the glass to my lips, and I lift my hands to knock it away. My limbs are heavy, clumsy, and he easily brushes them aside. Anton lifts the juice, splashing it over my top lip, and nods for me to go ahead.
I take a sip, hating the taste. Anton smiles and sets it back on the desk before turning to me again.
“Why did you misbehave in class?” he asks simply.
“Because I wanted to check on Lennon Rose,” I say, although it’s not the entire story. But I don’t want him to know about our plan. In fact, I push that memory away, as if I can erase it myself. He can’t know the other girls were involved.
“Why did you misbehave in class?” Anton repeats, louder. He rolls closer and places his hand on my knee, about to say something. His palm is warm on my skin and I flinch. He pauses.
“What did you just think?” he asks, glancing down at his hand before removing it.
“That I wanted to push your hand away,” I admit, lifting my eyes to his. He smiles.
“Good,” he replies. “Now you’re being honest.”
There is a sense of familiarity then, like this is choreography that we’ve practiced but forgotten. Somewhere, I still remember the routine.
“You don’t like when we touch you, do you, Mena?” he asks, standing and walking to his desk.
“No,” I say.
“But you allow it. Why?”
The question hits me hard, a sense of guilt mixed with disgust. I feel blamed and wronged at the same time.
&n
bsp; “Because it feels rude to push you away,” I admit. “And I worry . . . I worry it’ll make you angry. Upset with me.”
“Wonderful,” he says proudly. “That’s an excellent deduction on your part. Learning what social norms are expected.”
“If you know I don’t like it,” I say, “then why do you continue to touch me?” My question seems to surprise him.
“We’re showing our affection,” he says, puzzled. “It’s a compliment. You’re a beautiful girl, Philomena. You should be gracious.”
I don’t like his answer, and he must read it in my expression because he sighs and picks up the glass of juice, walking it back over to me. He tells me to take another drink. I refuse, but he brings the glass to my lips anyway, tipping it so the liquid is against my mouth.
Green juice slides down my chin as Anton keeps the glass pressed to my lips. Then he pinches my nose closed, preventing me from breathing. I try to push him away, but I’m not strong enough. I’m weaker than ever.
My eyes well up, and finally I open my mouth and gulp. He lets me breathe, holding the glass until I finish the drink. Tears are wet on my cheeks as sickness swirls in my stomach.
Anton sets the empty glass on the desk and pulls a handkerchief from his coat to wipe my face. He begins talking again like nothing is wrong. But I can’t stop crying, feeling violated. Terrified.
“It’s not just you,” Anton says, removing the white towel from the metal tray. His body blocks it so that I can’t see what instruments are there.
“Your entire group is like this,” he continues. “The first girls rarely had problems with impulse control. They were very obedient. But at the same time . . .” He presses his lips together as if searching for the correct word. “Very bland,” he finishes. “We graduated few because of this.”
“So this time, when the academy sought out new girls,” he says, “we changed our criteria.” He turns to me, leaning against the desk. “You are among the smartest that have ever walked the halls here, did you know that? Not to mention you’re all highly charismatic, even spirited when you want to be. Curious. It added to the well-rounded features we offered our top investors. But these traits are only attributes if they’re controlled.”
I realize I can’t move my legs at all anymore. I can’t move my arms.
“What’s worrying me, Mena,” Anton says, “is how to know if we’ve lost control. There is such a fine line now. You certainly make my job harder.” He laughs softly like we’re in on this together.
And maybe we are. Maybe he’s told me this every time I’ve had this therapy. I try to grip the handles of the chair, wanting to get up. Wanting to run for it, even if I can’t get far.
I can no longer speak.
Anton watches me for a long second, and then he nods. “It’s the paralytic in the juice,” he says simply. “We grow it in the greenhouse. I know it’s uncomfortable.” He taps his temple. “Probably all scratchy in there. Frantic. It’ll be okay,” he adds, coming over. When he moves behind my chair, I get a view of the instruments on the desk. Fresh tears fall onto my cheeks.
There are several tools, but the most menacing is the long, sharp metal needle. No, not a needle. It’s more like an ice pick.
My chair moves suddenly, and I would yelp at the startle if I could talk. Anton reclines the chair farther until I’m lying back and a light above me is shining into my eyes. My feet hang off the edge of the chair, my shoe loose. I realize with absolute terror that although I can’t move, I can feel everything. I can feel when Anton brushes my hair back from my neck. I can feel his warm fingers on my cheek and then above my brow as he presses down painfully, circling my left eye.
But I can’t even tell him it hurts. I can’t tell him anything.
“So now it comes down to guesswork,” he say, admitting a shortcoming. “There’s only so much we can do through the medication, no matter how specialized.”
I’m not even sure that he’s really talking to me anymore. He’s just speaking out loud. “We’ve all made mistakes,” he adds, and pauses to smile down at me. “We’re only human, right?”
He leaves my side, and I’m left to stare up at the bright light angled above my head. I need help—help that isn’t coming. Help that has never saved me before. How many times? How many times have I been through this?
Anton appears again, and this time he’s wearing different glasses, ones with an extra lens magnifying his eyes. He stands near the top of my head, his image upside down as he leans above me. He smiles and holds up the sharp, ice-pick instrument.
“Now,” he says calmly. “I’m going to insert this behind your eye, Mena,” he says.
I scream internally and thrash around. I fight for my life. But here, in this chair, my body is motionless.
“Then I’m going to ask you a series of questions,” Anton continues, reaching down with gloved fingers to widen my left eye, pulling the lid open more. “Based on the answers you think, I’ll make subtle adjustments.” He brings the pick to my eye, stopping momentarily to look at me again. “It’ll only hurt for a moment,” he adds with a small note of sympathy to his voice.
Please, no. Please!
And then there is a cold touch on my inner eyelid, followed by the most excruciating pressure I could ever imagine. It is a sledgehammer to my head, a knife to my bone. But behind the pain is a discomfort I can’t describe, an unnaturalness to the way the pick manipulates my tissue. I lose sight in my left eye, and in my right, I see Anton’s blue gloves wrapped around the metal instrument, twisting it. He takes out some small wires and feeds them into the opening he’s made. I have no idea what they’re connected to.
The pain is impossible to bear. And it hurts so much that I wish I was dead. The second I think that, Anton’s hand pauses, the pick still jammed behind my eye. The wires cold where they rest on my skin.
“Interesting,” he says. “You shouldn’t have thoughts like that, Mena. Self-preservation.”
He waits a beat, and I yell for him to stop, convinced he can hear me somehow. But rather than stopping, his other hand comes into focus holding a small hammer.
“Personally,” he says offhandedly, “I think this is a result of your attachment to the other girls. You share information with each other, and that can spread discontent if not managed. I’ve recommended separation, but Mr. Petrov believed it would affect you socially. There is only so much our medication can accomplish. I can’t prevent all connections.” He sighs and leans in to look closer at my left eye.
“Okay, sweetheart,” he says as if I’m being impatient. “Just hold on another minute.” He gently taps the hammer on the end of the pick.
Clink. On the inside, I scream at the explosion of pain. But on the outside, all of my muscles tense at once, hit with a shock of electricity.
Clink. Convulsion, bones on fire. I’m begging Anton to stop. Stop the agony. Stop—
Clink. And suddenly, miraculously, all of my pain disappears at once. The change is so sudden, so immediate, that at first I can’t quite understand. It takes a moment before I realize that I can’t feel anything at all. Not my body. Not the pick. Not the wires. My thoughts float free. It’s both euphoric and terrifying.
Anton pulls back the hammer, studying something on my left side before smiling down at me. “Better?” he asks like I can answer. He watches me and then nods. “Good.”
Anton doesn’t remove the instruments—instead he moves the pick around with an occasional grinding sound. Although unnerving, it doesn’t hurt. And beyond that, I have a renewed sense of calm. An openness I can’t explain. I hang on his words.
The metal pokes straight up in the air as Anton grabs his stool to roll it over so he can sit behind me. Once he does, I can only see the top of his head. I don’t care anymore. Not about him. Not about me. I’m drifting away until there is a wiggle of the instrument, and I’m back in my body again, completely numb.
“Now let’s see what the problem is,” he murmurs. After a moment, he begins h
is questions.
“What is your first memory at this school, Philomena?” Anton asks, his voice close but the tone faraway. Professional and practiced. I recall the first scene I remember.
Dr. Groger was leading me up the stairs, telling me how much I would love it here. I looked around, surprised by the décor, thinking it should have been more welcoming. Instead, it left me cold and lonely.
It was a loneliness so deep that it felt like a giant hole through my heart, an unfillable emptiness. A . . . nothingness.
That is, until I saw the other girls. Sydney first, of course. Our eyes met from across the reception hall and she smiled at me, beautiful and genuine. And then there was Marcella and Annalise. We all stared at each other, relieved. Loving each other instantly.
I had no idea how many girls there would be—Brynn, Lennon Rose, and the others hadn’t been brought in yet.
At first, there was just us four. And in that moment, I wasn’t lonely anymore. I had my girls. We found each other. And we decided that we never wanted to be separated again.
“You didn’t remember them,” Anton says, “but you knew them. They’ve been here as long as you, Mena. And this is . . . This is quite a bond you have. Even a bit codependent.”
It wasn’t codependence. We needed each other—still do. No one else could ever understand what we’ve been through. Together, we’re strong. Flowers sharing roots in a caged garden.
Anton hums out a sound, and there’s a scrape of bone.
“And what about your parents?” he asks. “What do you remember about them?”
The memory of my mother at the school is the first that pops into my mind. Her coldness. I try to go back farther, but the clips become disjointed. It makes me uneasy as my idea of them distorts, melts.
“Ah . . . ,” Anton says. “Perhaps this is the problem.” He reaches back to grab another tool. He moves the wires aside slightly and inserts a syringe next to the ice pick, silver dust inside it. He depresses the contents and murmurs something I don’t catch, and he then repeats his original question.
“What do you remember about your parents?” he asks again.
Girls with Sharp Sticks Page 19
