Suzanne Young - The Treatment

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.