Suzanne Young - The Treatment

Realm falls to the side and James gets to his knees, fist raised to smash down on Realm’s face, until Dallas pulls something out of her pocket. The switchblade flashes, and then she’s got the knife to James’s throat, stopping him cold. My eyes are wide as Dallas has her arm twisted around James’s neck, the blade biting into his skin. He lifts his eyes to where she is, his chest heaving and a trickle of blood coming from the cut on his cheekbone.

“I can’t let you kill him,” she says. “Sorry, James.”

For a moment we’re all quiet, and then Dallas lowers her knife, and James—watching her the entire time—climbs to his feet. He glances in my direction before walking out. I want to check that he’s okay, but I decide to give him some time to cool off.

Realm sits up, resting his elbows on his bent knees as he lets the blood continue to run down his face. Drops tap on the wood floor. Dallas looks between us, her expression darkening before she goes over to grab her drink, taking a long swig.

I’m in shock, unable to utter a word, until Dallas throws her half-filled soda at Realm, hitting him in the shoulder before the can falls to the ground, sending out a sticky spray of Coke. I yelp and step back, staring at her as soda foams from the mouth of the can.

“So you got ahold of The Treatment,” she snarls at Realm, “and you gave it to her  ?” Dallas glares in my direction and I shrink away with immediate guilt.

“Not the time, Dallas,” Realm says. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“Don’t dismiss me. I swear to God, I’ll—”

Realm jumps to his feet, the bottom half of his face still awash with blood. He looks insane, and for the first time I can remember, I’m scared of him. Realm balls his hands into fists, but Dallas doesn’t back away.

“Get out,” he says through clenched teeth.

“Not until you tell me how you got it. Not until you tell me why her!” Dallas is coming undone, her lips quivering like she might cry. I expect Realm to reach for her, call her “sweetness,” and soothe away her anger. But he doesn’t.

“You don’t matter, Dallas,” he says seriously. “You don’t matter the way she does and you know it. I love her. And that’s all I’m going to say about it.”

A terrible silence falls over the room, and Dallas lowers her eyes, injured by Realm’s words. In them I feel betrayal, and the emotion strikes me as familiar—even though I can’t place where it’s from.

“I hate both of you,” Dallas murmurs, not lifting her head as she leaves.

I don’t care if Dallas hates me—the feeling is mutual. But when Realm’s posture sags, I know there’s more to their relationship than friends with benefits. And yet he was so quick to send her away, crush her. Is that how he cares? When I no longer matter, will he dismiss me, too?

Neither Realm nor I make a move to clean the mess of soda Dallas left behind. My body is still shaking with adrenalin, but underneath I’m drowning in the deep darkness, aching everywhere.

“What’s going on, Realm?” I ask. “What is The Treatment?”

He drags his forearm over his chin to clean off some of the blood. “That little orange pill you’ve been hiding,” he says, “is the cure for The Program—they call it The Treatment. There were only a few prototypes, but after The Program found out about them, they destroyed the laboratory. They destroyed the scientist who made them too. But there was one pill left.”

I don’t deserve this, not when Dallas or James or probably a hundred others would give anything to take it. “Why did you give it to me?”

“Because you needed it,” he says simply. “You went off the grid, broke their rules. The Program wants you back, Sloane. And this was the only way I could protect what’s left of you.”

“But how—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt.” Cas stands in the doorway, his hair pulled into a ponytail and his chin unshaven. He darts an uneasy look around the trashed bedroom. “We have a visitor,” he adds.

Realm’s hand immediately grips my elbow, pulling me to stand behind him. “Who is it?” he asks quickly. “And how did they find us?”

“Looks like Dallas got ahold of the doctor after all.”

Realm curses under his breath, but I’m freaking out, terrified of the word doctor .

“Has he said anything?” Realm asks, wiping his bloody hands on the bottom of his T-shirt as if it’ll be enough to make him presentable.

“Just that he’s here to talk. He asked for them,” Cas says, motioning to me.

I take in a sharp breath. “No,” I say. “Realm, are they going to take me?”

“No, sweetness,” he says. “Dallas has been searching for this man for a while—against my objections.” He shakes his head, a mix of annoyance and anger. “I don’t think he’s a threat. He’s not with The Program.” Realm and Cas exchange a look before Realm starts for the door, muttering under his breath: “At least not anymore.”

I’m a total mess as I walk downstairs, fearful of the doctor, guilty for what I’ve put James through, ashamed I’ve taken Realm’s gift for granted—Dallas’s reaction proves it. I walk into the living room and Dallas’s scowl from the couch radiates white-hot hatred. I move to the other side of the room. Realm stops to wash his face, and then he meets me in the room. Cas walks past us toward the kitchen, where I assume the doctor is waiting.

I expect James to come in, but the minutes tick by without him. I shoot a few cautious looks in Dallas’s direction, but she seems unconcerned with his absence. I, however, am beginning to freak out.

“Where’s James?” I murmur to Realm. He shrugs, annoyed I’d even pose the question to him. I’m about to call to Dallas, when there’s movement from the hallway and I startle as a man strides into the room, not waiting for Cas to introduce him.

The man is tall and thin underneath his charcoal suit. He has a gray beard and mustache. He looks like someone’s rich old grandpa, but when he speaks, his voice is crisp as it cuts through the quiet room.

“You’re completely vulnerable here,” he says. He searches until he finds Dallas. “What if I was a handler?”

“Then you’d be wearing white.”

He doesn’t crack a smile. “You know that’s not what I mean, Miss Stone. All of you,” he motions around the room, “are accessories. One slipup will land you in jail, or worse, in The Program. I suggest you keep your guard up. I won’t be able to save you if you’re caught.”

Dallas’s hard exterior wanes and she begins to chew on her thumbnail, averting his eyes. Everyone else is calm as this man stands in front of us like he’s in charge. James is missing and I’m suddenly alone.

“Who are you?” I ask the man finally.

The doctor slides his hands into the pockets of his suit and presses his lips together in apology. “I’m sorry it’s taken us so long to be introduced,” he says somberly. “I’ve been following your case for some time, Miss Barstow.” He takes a step toward me and extends his palm. “I’m Dr. Arthur Pritchard, and I’m the creator of The Program.”

THE PROGRAM TIGHTENS CONTROL

With the increasing restrictions put forth by The Program, teens have turned to a new form of expression. Suicide Clubs have cropped up all over the country—illegal underground parties where drugs, alcohol, and depression are commonplace.

Authorities worry Suicide Clubs will lead to a spike in self-termination, and they’re expending considerable resources to track down the proprietors. A recently raided club in Utah touched off a manhunt spanning several states, but The Program isn’t providing any further details about the suspects at this time. However, they’re asking for the public’s help in reporting any and all suspicious behavior.