The Treatment (27 page)

“I must admit . . .,” the doctor begins, “I came here expecting Michael Realm. I’m disappointed he hasn’t come for you. I guess he doesn’t love you after all.”

His barb hurts, but I move past it, focusing on what really matters. “You can’t let Roger get away with this,” I say after an extended silence. My voice is strangled and weak. “He’s a psychopath and he’s going to kill Dallas and Realm. I know he’s part of the boys’ club here, but even you must have limits.”

“Measures are being taken.”

I laugh but then grip my damaged neck to alleviate the burn. The doctors are the ones who are crazy. Not us. Not the patients. “He’s going to get away with it,” I say. “Just like last time.” I look him directly in the eyes. “He was blackmailing patients to have sex with him in exchange for memories.”

Beckett’s expression falters. “Are these rumors? How do you know this?”

“I was a patient, remember?” I pause. “I was a victim.”

“You retained memories?”

“Are you not getting the point? He’s raping underage girls, Beckett. Who gives a shit if he lets them keep one inconsequential memory? They’re losing so much more. And this should all be documented,” I add. “He was fired while I was a patient.”

Again Dr. Beckett looks perplexed. I can’t believe this.

“Dr. Warren knew all about it,” I say. “Realm broke his arm, they fired Roger and escorted him out. Why did The Program hire him back?”

“We didn’t. Roger no longer works for The Program—not on a public level. And neither does Dr. Warren for that matter. Her position was terminated after you went rogue.” Beckett exhales, looking weary. “Sloane, we’re going to have to talk about Nurse Kell.”

Guilt attacks my conscience. “Is she okay?”

Dr. Beckett tilts his head from side to side. “She’s not great, that’s for sure. She needed several staples to close the wound in her head. Is that how you repay someone who’s been trying to help you? Do you still think you’re not sick?”

“I didn’t want to hurt her,” I say, ashamed. “I just wanted to see Dallas. I was worried about her. What you’re doing is wrong. You can’t just turn us into zombies.”

Dr. Beckett scoffs. “Hardly, Sloane. You’ve seen Lacey—the
patients are all perfectly well. Just . . . less violent. Less suicidal. Can you really not see that?”

I’ll never make him understand. I think he believes this bullshit. “Leave me alone then,” I say. “I don’t know where Realm is, and even if I did, I would never tell you. He may have betrayed me, but at least he’s not a delusional prick.”

Dr. Beckett doesn’t move at first, but then a wide Cheshire-like grin spreads over his face. “Poor girl,” he starts in a sympathetic voice, “you really are a lost soul.”

He reaches down and brushes his fingers over my cheek gently. “Sleep well, Sloane,” he murmurs. “I’ll do what I can to help Dallas.” On cue, the door opens and two handlers come in, talking in hushed voices. Dr. Beckett gives me one last look, his expression a bit doubtful, but concerned nonetheless.

“Sweep the area, and call outside and have them search the grounds,” he tells the handlers. “And keep extra security outside of solitary until the surgeon calls down tomorrow.” The handlers, like mindless drones, leave with their mission.

“So that’s it?” I call to Beckett’s back as he starts to leave. “You’re just going to sever our memories and pretend like we never existed?”

“Believe me, Sloane,” he says, “I wish that’s all there was to it. You can’t imagine the PR nightmare you and your boyfriend have created for us. But we’ll get through it. The Program will survive. Because teens will keep trying to kill themselves, and we’ll keep saving them. It’s the new order of things. I’m just glad I’m on the right side of the battle.”

“You’re not.”

“Yeah, well, what do you know?” he says, annoyance cracking through his otherwise cool exterior. “You’re depressed. Delusional. Your opinion means shit here.” He pauses, visibly collecting himself. “I’ll see you on the other side, Sloane. I think you’ll be a lot more likeable then.” And with that, Dr. Beckett leaves me locked in a padded cell, while he goes back to tend to The Program.

“JAMES,” I WHISPER INTO THE
air above my bed, wishing his name could conjure him up. Instead I can only imagine his face, his eyes so blue, the sound of his voice. James isn’t really here. He never will be. I’m alone in a room, hands at my side in the most claustrophobic position in the world.

As I sit in silence, I feel my sanity wavering. I’m not sure how much time has passed since I attacked Nurse Kell—a few hours? A day? There’s no way to tell. No windows. No anything. Another female nurse has come in twice to help me use the restroom. Last time she was here, she dressed me in scratchy gray scrubs, but she didn’t speak to me. In fact, I could feel that she hated me. I wonder if she was friends with Kell. Once, I almost asked about my old nurse, but then thought better of it. I don’t have the right to ask. I’m the lunatic who hurt her.

Now I’m tied down to a bed, calling out the name of my boyfriend, actually waiting for an answer. Time ticks by, and then, from beyond the door I hear sounds . . . heavy footsteps, not the quiet brushing steps of the nurse. Then more noise, multiple people. My pulse quickens and I smile. They came for me. James and Realm have finally come back for me.

I strain my neck, lifting my head off the bed to watch the door. I’m going to get out of here. Thoughts spin in my head, erratic and smashing into each other. I don’t try to clear them. Instead I start screaming.

“I’m in here!” I yell to them. “James!” I cough, my throat still sore from Roger’s attack, but I don’t care. I don’t want them to walk past. I hear the swipe of a card, the beep of the door. I’m almost free.

The door swings open, and it takes me a moment to process. It’s not James, or even Realm. It’s a guy in a white coat, comb-smoothed light hair. Behind him are two other guys, near copies of each other. The smile falls from my face. The butterflies in my stomach catch fire and turn to ash, filling me with despair.

“No,” I say, shaking my head slowly. “No.”

The handler betrays little emotion as he comes inside the room. He begins to unfasten the restraints, his touch firm but not painful. “We’re going on a trip, Miss Barstow,” he says, as if I’m unable to understand his words. “I’ll help you up, and then you just have to walk with us, okay?”

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“There’s a doctor they want you to meet.”

I let the guy help me up, glad to be on my feet again. The back of my hair is a tangle of knots, and I run my hand over it self-consciously as we exit the room. I’m not going to see Dr. Beckett—I’m going to the surgeon. They’re going to lobotomize me.

One of the handlers stays behind, guarding what must be Dallas’s room. Nothing around me seems real, not the walls or the white coats. Not the smell of soap or the ache in my wrists. I’m walking through a nightmare that I’ll never wake up from. Will this me—the me I am now—be trapped in a padded cell while the new Sloane takes over? I’ll be waiting for James forever. A tear trickles down my cheek, and I hitch in a breath, my dry lips cracking as I begin to whimper. The fear is so completely overwhelming, so entirely encompassing, that I let myself slip back into a memory—I retreat to a safe place. A final place. I think of James.

“Sloane,” James says, his lips curved in a grin. “I think you should learn to swim.”

“Uh-huh.” I adjust the sound on the car radio, and James playfully slaps my hand away.

“I’m not kidding,” he says. “What if we had to swim for our lives?”

I turn and laugh. “What, like, from sharks?”

“You never know.”

“No, I’m pretty sure I’ll never have to swim from sharks. I’m
fine with not swimming, James. I’m pretty good at skipping rocks. I’ll have to show you sometime.”

“I hate that you’re scared,” he says, his smile fading as his voice becomes more serious. We’re on our way to meet Lacey and Kevin, on our way to join rebels. Every moment of normalcy we have has an undercurrent of  fear. I don’t think it’ll ever go away again.

“I don’t want you to be scared of anything,” James says. “I want you to fight. Fight for everything, always. Otherwise they win.”

I swallow hard, the unspoken “they” being The Program. “I fought for you,” I murmur.

James lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Yeah, well. Now I want you to learn to swim.”

“Never.”

James turns on the windshield wipers as a soft rain begins to patter the glass. He shakes his head as if I’m the biggest pain in the ass he’s ever known. “One day,” he says, “I’ll find a way to convince you to listen to me.”

I open my eyes, the hallway stretched endlessly. The stark white walls begin to fade away—the color deepening to a dusty gray the closer I get to the surgeon’s room. I’ll never swim with James. He was right; I was too scared—always too scared. I turn from side to side, looking up at the handlers as they continue to usher me forward, moving me closer to the end of life as I know it.

I can’t be scared anymore. I have to swim.

“You realize what you’re doing, right?” I ask one of the handlers. “I’m not even sick. They’re doing this to keep me quiet.”

Neither of them looks at me, although I see the handler on my right squint slightly. I wish Asa was here; I wish he’d help me. But instead I have these two strangers with whom I’ll have my last conversation before I meet the doctor. I yank my arms back, but they hold me fast.

“Keep moving,” one says gently, as if I really am crazy.

“I can’t believe you let yourself be part of this,” I hiss at him. “I can’t believe you let them destroy people. What if I was your friend? Your sister? What if I was you?”

The handler turns, his lip curled up with some sort of ready response, but I seize the moment. I throw all my weight into my shoulder and slam into him, knocking him off balance while freeing my arm from the other handler. My socks slip on the floor, but it gives me an advantage as I drop lower, missing the swinging arm of the handler trying to catch me.

I take off, sliding until I get enough traction, and then I’m through the doors leading out into the main hallway. The handlers are yelling, both to me and into their walkie-talkies. I’ll never get out like this, but I refuse to let them walk me to my death. If they’re going to take me, they’re going to take me kicking and screaming. I won’t make it easy for them.

The walls are white again and I’m running as fast as my legs will carry me. I’m not sure how far behind me they are, and I don’t turn to look, afraid it will slow me down. I expect
the shock of the Taser at any second, but I keep going. I’ll never stop.

I take the final turn and see the backs of several security guards. The air catches in my throat, my stomach sinking to the floor. It’s over. I’m about to scream, fight to the death, but they don’t turn to me, and then suddenly the handlers behind me stop yelling. They listen to their handsets, glancing from me to the scene up ahead. I’m confused, my adrenaline pulsing through my veins until I hear the other voices. I realize security isn’t concerned about me or the calls from my handlers because they’re talking to someone, or rather, actively trying to keep someone out of the hall.

I continue in that direction, knowing I’m walking straight into the arms of security, but hoping it’s my salvation somehow. I cast glances back at the handlers, who have paused, looking torn about what to do. One of the security guards raises his voice, repeating that he has no comment.
Oh my God.

I start to jog, craning my neck around the broad-shouldered men. Another voice shouts that he will not be censored, and I recognize him. I stop next to the stairwell door, flooded with relief, overwhelming relief.

A guard steps toward him, and he comes into focus. Kellan—his dark hair, his eager eyes. “Kellan?” I say, not loud enough for him to actually hear me because my voice is still hoarse, because I’m already crying. I’m saved. The reporter won’t let me get lobotomized.

Behind Kellan there’s a cameraman filming the entire
exchange, even though one of the security guards keeps pushing his lens, knocking it aside. I get on my tiptoes, lifting up my tired arms to wave them and get the reporter’s attention, when the door next to me opens with a loud click. Before I even have time to see who it is, a hand darts out and grabs my elbow, pulling me into the stairwell. The door slams shut behind me.

“HOLY CHRIST, SLOANE,” JAMES SAYS,
pulling me behind him before he jams a tire iron in the metal bar of the door, securing it closed. Without another word he gathers me into a hug, pressing his lips to my forehead as we stand in the cold concrete stairwell.

I can’t even hug him back. My hands are shaky as I lift them, slowly, to touch the sleeve of his shirt and then his arm—his warm skin. I look up and study his blue eyes, his shaggy blond hair, the blond beard on his jaw. He’s the James from my memories. Is he just a memory?

“Are you real?” I ask, my voice wavering. I half-think I’ve slipped into a delusion, that I got the lobotomy and this is the resulting psychosis. But then my fingers touch the scars on James’s bicep and I know it’s him. I moan and fall into him again.

“I’m here,” James whispers, holding me so tightly, so securely. “I’m here, Sloane. I told you I’d come for you. Now”—he leans back to see me—“we have to get out of here. Your reporter friend is running a distraction, but we have to get out
now
. Can you run?”

I nod, wiping my face, but unable to let go of James’s arm. I’m afraid he’ll slip away, and then someone will grab me and drag me back into the white hallway. And I can’t go back. I just can’t.

“What about Dallas?” I ask. “They have her and—”

“I’ve already sent for her,” a voice says from the landing below. I look down the stairs and see Realm standing there, wearing a white jacket, his hair combed smooth. The image of it makes me so sick to my stomach that I think I might throw up. Realm as a handler. Realm as who he is.