Midnight for the Broken (7 page)

“How has your stay been?” asks Dr. Snow.

I glare back at him, daring him to follow up his question so I can yell back an insult. When he doesn't, I retreat to my bed.

Dr. Snow slides the chair from the corner and sits, facing me. It’s a familiar position now. “The world is changing,” he says.

“I wouldn't know,” I retort.

Despite his overtly friendly tone and calm demeanor, I don't like him. He's keeping me here, subjecting me to never-ending tests and physical humiliation. And he still hasn't kept his promise. I signed the agreement over a week ago.

“No,” he says, shaking his head, “you wouldn't.” The chair creaks as he shifts. “You keep glaring at me like I'm the bad guy,” he says. “I'm trying to help. Do you understand that I'm trying?”

I shake my head and slide over to face him. “Look at me,” I say. “Do I look like someone who's been helped?” I tug at my robe. “I don't have clothes, I'm never allowed to go anywhere, and I don't have any friends?” I lean forward and speak low so he'll pay attention to my words. “Tell me how this is any different from prison.”

Dr. Snow never changes his gaze and doesn't answer. Then he stands and brushes off his long coat as if the air around me has contaminated him somehow. “I'm not asking you to like me, Mr. Moon.” He puts his hands at his waist. “But I am helping you. What are you going to do when this is all over, and the people here are all gone?”

“Shower,” I snap back. “This place stinks.”

Dr. Snow retreats to the door and yanks it open. “There's a young woman here today,” he says. “Someone I care about very much. She came to see you for your birthday. Tell me again what you said before. Tell me you don't have any friends.”

The door slams shut, leaving me with the echo of his words. Jessica? My birthday? I don't believe it’s already March eighth. As I sit and decide whether or not to trust what I heard, I understand why Jessica tried so hard to keep me from her parents. I understand how she wasn't able to chat with me at times. I'm proud of the efforts she made and nod knowing how much she must have risked to go to that basketball game so long ago. She had been stronger than I realized.

The door opens again. This time it's a guard. I stare at him, waiting. I’m trying to determine if this is some sort of trick. But the guard doesn’t move or change his hollow expression. I stand up and follow him down the hall and into a room I've never been to. It's colder than the others and it chills the open back of my gown.

There's a cushioned chair, a steel table with paper cups half-filled with water. The bare walls frame a large window that extends from the floor to the ceiling. On the other side of the window is an empty, identical room. When I turn to question the guard, he disappears and closes the door behind him. I wait for the familiar electronic buzz that announces the door has been locked, but no sound comes. Why am I allowed to leave this room and not the others?

I'm walking around the table, searching for a clue as to where I am when a similar door in the opposite room opens. Jessica enters.

“Jessica!” I run to the window and pound on the glass. “Jessica.”

She's ignoring me, or can't hear me; it's impossible to tell which. She studies her room and then sees me. She runs to the window. “Ryan.” There's no sound, but my name passes from her lips as she presses close to the glass.

I call to her again, but the rooms are soundproof. No matter what I yell, she doesn't appear to hear me. And I can't hear her. It's as if the air has been sucked away as I try to mouth a hello and not force a sound. She's doing the same. We are close, so close, but we can only see each other. I want to hear her voice. I want to feel the touch of her skin. But I can't.

I press one hand against the glass and Jessica does the same. Our hands mark the same spot and I'm inches from holding hers. I stretch my fingers wide and she repeats the motion.

“Are you okay?” She asks with emphatic lip movement.

I shake my head. “No.”

There's instant sadness. She lowers her head and looks like she's fighting back tears. I shake my head again.

“Don't,” I tell her, without speaking. But she doesn't see my mouth.

I stare at her. Jessica curled her hair and the locks twist and wrap around her shoulders. She is wearing a long a green dress and tan sandals. She looks back up at me, tears streaming down her cheeks. I touch them at the glass but they don't stop. I can't reach them.

“It's okay,” I whisper.

I'm fighting my own emotion now. I didn't expect it to be like this. I don't know what I had thought seeing her would be like, but the moment tears me apart. It's like being trapped in a bubble. Nothing I do or say seems to affect her. I'm forced to watch her through the glass, to witness her tears, to talk without being heard.

She speaks, but I don't understand. I smile instead, hoping it was something nice, some word of encouragement, some message of hope.

“You're beautiful,” I say. I grin to let her know that I mean it.

She seems to understand and dips her face and turns to one side. She's shy. My first tear falls and I press my hand to the glass again. She touches it. I press with all my want and desire, willing the glass to vanish so I can hold the hand of the only person in the world who accepts what I am. We're worlds apart, but only inches away. More tears come and I don't fight them.

“Jessica.” I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head to fight the pain that's overwhelmed me. It's worse than anything I've felt before. I feel my legs start to weaken. I look into her eyes again and plead for her to understand how much I miss her.

Jessica wipes a tear with the tip of her finger and then traces a heart on the glass between us. I press my other palm against the heart and nod. I miss her, too. I look at her and want everything I can't have.

The moment lasts forever, but not long enough. When our doors open, we keep staring through the glass and pressing our palms together. Our time is up and I don't know when I'll see her again. I kiss my fingers and touch them to her lips before submitting to the warning I receive from the guard at my door. As she turns away, a toss of her hair gives me a final glance at the beauty in the world I'm missing.

Chapter Twelve: Fear

I lose track of the days though I estimate that it's been almost two weeks since my visit with Jessica. I see Dr. Snow a handful of times, but he doesn't address me directly anymore. The tests continue, including one where I'm injected with some sort of fluid that burns and turns my skin bright red. More blood samples are taken and I'm given another shot that sends tingles to my fingers. Half an hour later, my arm feels normal again.

The day Mr. Jackson comes into my room, I expect more bad news since he's come with Janice, the notary.

“Are you ready to leave?” he asks plainly, as if I've been hanging out at a friend's house for a day.

I stare at him, not sure if I'm dreaming, or if the injections are making me hallucinate.

“Ryan, did you hear me?”

“I'm trying to decide if you're real.”

He holds out his hand. “Pinch me if you want. I'm real. And I'm taking you home.”

The moment seems like a dream and everything happens so quickly. One moment I'm signing release papers, and in another a nurse brings me boxers, jeans, a shirt and some flip flops. I change quickly, not caring about Janice or the nurse in the room, before following Mr. Jackson. We're led through the clinic, past iron doors that never opened for me before, and into tile hallways I've never seen. When we reach the front of the building I see the sky for the first time since my arrival. It's blue and fresh and welcoming.

“How long have I been here?” I ask, squinting at the brightness.

Mr. Jackson leads me down the sidewalk. “Almost a month,” he answers. “It's March twentieth. I'm sorry I didn't get you out sooner. Once the second video surfaced, it took two days to get emergency injunctions issued.”

“Second video?” I follow Mr. Jackson to a silver Mercedes and climb in after he clicks open the locks.

“Of the fight,” he answers as he enters the driver's seat.

I study the interior. I haven't been in a normal car in two years. It feels so small and cramped, but it offers the most freedom I've known in a while. I'm staring at the building next to us—brick and inconspicuous with no windows—when Mr. Jackson taps me on the shoulder.

“Hey,” he says. “You’ll need your seat belt.”

I search beside me, trying to remember how seat belts work. I find what I need and, with some effort, click the belt into the lock at my side. The day still doesn't feel real and I keep expecting to open my eyes and see Dr. Snow staring down at me and telling me how much I need him.

Mr. Jackson rumbles the car to start and then wheels us away. I grin at the speed, but it's also a shock to my system. My stomach heaves a warning.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “Should I slow down?”

I shake my head. “No. Go faster. I want to get as far away from that place as possible.”

We careen in and out of light traffic and are soon on the freeway, driving faster than I've been in years.

“You were telling me about a video,” I say, resuming the conversation we had started.

“It took a subpoena to get it,” says Mr. Jackson. He smiles slyly. “It's the unedited version of your internet sensation.” He maneuvers the car and speeds up. “That I made sure found a place online.”

“I don't understand,” I say. “How did a video—?”

“The same way it almost sent you to prison,” he says, cutting me off. “You're not a criminal in the court, but in public opinion. Your only crime is to have been infected with something that's killed two hundred million people worldwide, and double that from violence.” He looks at me and smiles. “Once the world saw what actually happened that day in the hall, everyone's anger shifted.”

“I didn't start the fight.”

Mr. Jackson reaches behind my seat and pulls out a tablet and hands it to me. “I know. Take a look.”

I activate the video and a memory starts to play on the screen. I see myself pushed and kicked. I hear the laughter and it's real again, taunting my recollection. I gasp at the speed I punch Tyson and flinch as the blows fly faster than I can remember.

“I did that?” I ask.

Suddenly the car is trapping me and I can't breathe.

“Take in a big breath,” says Mr. Jackson. “You did. And that's all the world saw for a month. Laws were almost changed because of the last part of that video.”

I put down the tablet and take a deep breath. This isn't what I wanted. It's not the life I had imagined when I tried so hard to return to high school.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I'm sorry for everything.”

~ O ~

The hospital complex looks empty when we pull up to the entrance. I fumble with the digital controls on the car door before finally figuring out which one activates the lock and release.

“It's Sunday morning,” says Mr. Jackson, again answering the question in my mind. “No one is up yet.”

I stare at the mountains as I step out of the car. The sun has peaked, but it's barely over, making long shadows on the street behind us. Sunday had never looked so peaceful before.

“I had no idea what day it was in there,” I say. I shut the door. It slams, but the sound is muted and firm.

“A lot has changed, Ryan,” says Mr. Jackson. “Your life is not going to be the same. People are angry, some are scared. Don't expect the staff here to smile and wave at your arrival. There will be protests.”

“Like before?” I ask.

Mr. Jackson shakes his head. “I think it will be worse. School will be different, too. When you go back, you'll have security. The district is requiring extra security when you return.”

High school. That's the last place I want to go at the moment. I'm glad to be out of that windowless torture chamber they called a clinic, but I don't know what to think. Jessica. What do I say to her now? When will I see her? Will I see her again? This morning has put me back into a life I thought had ended.

“I don't want to return to school,” I say. I don't feel like going any place public. I don't feel like going anywhere. For the moment, I'd rather disappear from the world and try to figure out what my next step is. Without saying any more, I'm hoping Mr. Jackson understands. I'm hoping he'll tell me I can have what I want.

But he doesn't. Mr. Jackson chuckles and pats me on the shoulder. I flinch, not because it hurts; it's an automatic reaction.

“I'm assigned to you,” Mr. Jackson says. “And, for the most part, I'll do as you ask. But I know you, Ryan. I know what you've been trying to accomplish. Giving up now isn't in your best interest.” He pats me on the shoulder again and leads me toward the hospital doors. “You’ll go back to school on Friday.”

Unlike Mr. Jackson's warning to the contrary, my arrival back into the hospital feels routine and normal. It's almost as if I was never gone. We complete some forms at the front desk and I receive a new access badge with my picture on it. The nurses don’t say much, then dismiss Mr. Jackson and lead me into the Scream Room for a painful homecoming.

~ O ~

Back in room three forty one, everything feels different. It's clean. Little tags mark what's been sterilized—which is everything. My punching bag is gone, making the room feel open and hollow—and distinctly different from my quarters at the clinic. On my desk, everything has been straitened and rearranged. My packet from Stanford is still there. It's a reminder of the life I had built over the past couple years. It has been sifted through and examined; all the forms are out of order. Yeah, it's exactly like my life.

I turn on my computer and log in to access my media page.

This account has been disabled. Please contact an administrator.

I groan and switch pages on the screen. When I try to check my e-mail, I receive a similar message.

This account is no longer available. Please contact an administrator.

“I'm trying to contact an administrator!” I yell. I slap the desk and the monitor screen flickers.

Every site and service with my registered accounts is no longer available to me. I can't send emails, and attempts to access the account recovery options fail. I stare at the screen and groan. I'm free from the tortures of the clinic, but I can't see anyone, can't talk to anyone. I think about searching the internet to see what the world has been saying about me, but decide better.

When I first tried to go to high school, while the debates and laws and protests were hot and active, I used to look all the time. Most of what was said about me had been lies, and I learned quickly how angry it made me feel. The nurses had discouraged it, citing that emotion and stress weakened me and made the Virus stronger. Back then, I had used the only weapon at my disposal: Mr. Jackson. With his help I had managed to get a computer. I needed it for school, we had insisted, and with our success, the internet had become my window to the world. I had found Jessica there on a student chat site. Now that has been taken away. I remember the way Mr. Jackson slapped me on the shoulder and told me this was in my best interest. I flinch again from the memory of his touch. Is this in my best interest? Is Mr. Jackson on my side? I don't know anymore. I don't know anything.

Still, life back at the hospital is better than being a test subject for Dr. Snow. Here, I can go almost anywhere. I wander the halls and make friends with a few of the new patients. They know me from the news, but we're all the same in this place. We all want to get better. There's no one my age here, though, and I don't mention Jessica or high school, or the cruelty of the clinic. They wouldn’t understand, and I don't trust anyone. Not anymore.

~ O ~

I wake to the sunrise Monday morning. I stare out my window and watch its rays peak over the mountains. A month without the sun and it feels warm on my face through the glass. I'm stretching closer to the pane when honking breaks the dawn.

Down on the street, a man points up at me. He's shouting something, but it doesn't make sense. The horn sounds again, then another. More people gather around him and soon there's a crowd, staring and pointing at my window. I spend the morning staring back; there's nothing else to do. More horns. More people. And then the signs appear.

I'm too far up to read what they say, but the warning from Mr. Jackson yesterday, and my own experience, tells me they aren't invitations to church. I'm an outcast in this world of the living. The fact that I dare go to their places, try to live, and invade the public sense of security is shocking and emotional for the rest of the world. Now that I've taken one of their own as my girlfriend and seriously injured a promising football star, I can only imagine how angry the words on the signs are.

As the day drags on, I duck away from the window and close the blinds, though it doesn't block the sounds from the street. No one has told me about Tyson. I wouldn't have expected it, but I want to know what happened to him. Is he going to live? I know that he must hate me now—I would. I had never intended to hurt him. I think about the video of our fight. I was so violent, so fast. At that moment, I was exactly what people expected me to be. Maybe that's why they hate me so much.

Yes, they hate me. Their shouted words filter into room three forty one, sending a clear message. I'm not wanted.

All week, it's the same thing. I'm thankful for ear pods, because without them I wouldn't get any sleep. By Thursday night, cops, news crews and satellite trucks accompany the crowd. Protesters have heckled the hospital nurses too; a SWAT truck arrives during every shift change and cops escort the staff inside. Though the excitement is right outside the glass, everyone huddles around the television in the lounge, watching live video of the front of the building. That night I'm scrubbed extra hard and given special attention in the Scream Room.

“If only the cameras could see this,” I joke, as I'm prepped for my coating of Second Skin. “I wonder what the TV ratings would do.”

The nurse looks up and gives me a smile, but it's a sad, flat response. Her eyes are red. Tonight I feel sorry for her. The nurses here have cared for me. Sure, it's their job, but this hospital is my home. These people face shouts and yells and curses in order to come and make a living. I'm protected inside. They aren’t. Even the scrubbing she gives me didn't feel as bad as before.

“Thank you,” I tell her as she offers me a towel.

She smiles again. “My son goes to Viewmont.”

This surprises me and I lower the towel from my face. “Really?”

She nods. “His name is Adam. He's a sophomore.”

I've never talked to anyone at the hospital about school before. I dry my face and lean against the examination table. “Is he scared that I'm going back?” I ask.

The nurse shakes her head. “He says it was never like the news told everyone. He says people were mean to you. He says—” She pauses and then takes a heavy breath.

“What? What does he say?”

She shakes her head, as if fighting the words she intends to tell me.

“I let you scrub my flesh with a bristle brush,” I say. “And I did it with a smile this time. I think I can handle anything you tell me.”