Thank you, BK2U for editing this chapter for me. I'm sorry I'm so late in posting it!
As always, thanks to everyone who is following this story ;)
Of course, I sleep like shit.
The bed is just the beginning of my problems; it isn't my own, and it's far too small for me to find a comfortable position in which to sleep. I toss and turn for a bit, eventually punching the thin pillow as hard as possible out of frustration. I might as well be punching cotton balls, and it only makes me angrier when it sinks in that I really am trapped here.
I try to keep my heart rate even, but the idea is simply maddening. I'm no longer Eric Coulter, leader of Dauntless. I'm Eric Coulter, patient in room six, sent here to be evaluated and broken apart until I am fit to return to society.
Or until Jeanine's scandal blows over.
Unfortunately for me, that will take time. And the idea that this whole thing will blow over without consequence is bullshit. I could be here for much longer than I'd first imagined, and the thought feels like actual lead in my brain.
I stand up, throwing the thin sheet and blanket off me, and I pace the room until I end up at the lone window. The heavy curtains are half open, letting in just a sliver of moonlight. The urge to leap from here is strong; I know I'd survive the jump, even from the third floor, if I were able to actually pry apart the bars. I fidget with the lock on the window, and to my surprise it moves, and the window opens a half an inch.
The smell of rain hits my face, washing over me like a wave, and my hands ball into fists.
While the air outside is warm and sticky and not completely appealing, I feel the itchy urge to be out in it. I'd remedied a lot of sleepless nights in Dauntless by running through the city, occasionally getting stuck in a downpour or a drizzle. It made me feel alive — my heart pumping blood furiously as I ran, the pounding of my feet as they hit the pavement, the way the wind sliced at my skin.
I can almost feel it all now, except I'm stuck, trapped inside these walls.
I force myself back into bed, screwing my eyes shut and hoping I will fall asleep in the next few minutes. The logical part of my brain is working quickly to organize what I've observed. The window is definitely out and storming through the door is only out until I learn the orderlies' schedules. I'll need time to make a plan to break out, whether it be with my fists or with the Dauntless army behind me. My mind screams at me to ask to call Max and make the latter happen, but I'm not stupid enough to think he'll run over here right now.
Eventually, my brain tires of trying to remember every single thing that's happened to me since arriving here, and I fall asleep, dreaming of Harrison gleefully taking my position in Dauntless.
The first bed check happens sometime after midnight. I only know it's midnight because the dumbass making his rounds loudly announces "12:20," and I can feel him standing there, staring at the bed. I blink blearily, praying that sleep will overtake me again, even if it means seeing Harrison's face looming in my mind.
"Asleep?" someone calls out, their voice echoing in the hallway. The walls are much thinner than I'd thought, and I grit my teeth when the orderly replies, still leaning against the doorframe.
"The fucker's out cold. Dauntless must have had a rough day today."
He says the last part with a snicker, and while my initial reaction is to leap up and pound the ever-loving shit out of his unobservant ass, I know what will happen if they realize I'm not sleeping. They'll drug me, and I'll be back to square one, which won't help me at all. I need to be conscious and coherent, back to the Eric who would have worked out a plan to get out of here by now.
He finally slams the door shut, and I turn over, staring at the dull wall.
The bed checks were just a small example of the routine I was about to be trapped in. Kenan had told me that sometime after breakfast I'd sit down with a therapist to talk about my first steps to recovery. I wasn't at all interested, and it left me with a sick feeling at the loss of control I was experiencing. It had been a long time since someone had planned my day out for me, and I flashed back to my days as a Dauntless initiate — the grueling monotony of being told what to do, when to do it, and how to do it.
It makes me grind my teeth together, the feeling unpleasant as I close my eyes again, listening to the rain grow louder and louder until it drowns out my thoughts.
"You like pancakes? I love pancakes. We used to make them every day. My momma said you don't start your day off with pancakes, nothing's gonna go right. It's a common saying, everyone knows it."
"That's not a common saying, moron. You're the only one who ever says it."
I blink, pressing my fingers to my temples.
Bobby and Aidy are seated across from me, cheerfully eating a heaping pile of pancakes. I stare at them, ignoring the way Bobby is offering me a plate, still talking on and on about his mother and her pancakes and how much of a shame it is that I never got to try them. He speaks highly of her, though if I remember correctly, she once tried to kill him. There is a weak flash of curiosity over which faction he came from, but it's fleeting at best.
I ignore them, instead taking a sip of the wateriest, weakest coffee I've ever had.
"Are you not eating again?" Aidy asks me, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. She glances around, then leans in to whisper at me. "Because if you don't, they'll force feed you. It's not pretty. Eat something. Or at least pretend you are, and give me what you pick."
I glare nastily at her. It's not that I'm not hungry. I'd woken up after the shittiest night of sleep to discover Kenan grinning at me. He'd handed me a set of the same clothes I had on, though these were clean clothes, and they looked like something that a mental patient would wear. He waited patiently while I changed, and then he'd escorted me down to the cafeteria. The same feeling of fury washed over me as I sat down, only increasing when I realized I hadn't eaten anything in days.
But this felt like a trap, and had I been psychoanalyzing myself, I'd say I was starting to get a little paranoid.
"Morning, everyone. Morning, Eric."
Dr. Branger walks by, pausing briefly to stand beside me. She's as non-threatening as they come — her sweater and pencil skirt are more suited for a kindergarten teacher, and her eyes are bright and cheerful. She must not notice the sticky humidity in the air, nor the tepid atmosphere in the room.
"You look a little unhappy this morning," she announces, placing her hands on her hips. "Are you not a pancake person?"
"Fuck your pancakes." I raise my eyebrow at her. It must be mandatory to speak to everyone as though they were a small child. I make sure to ignore her frown of disapproval. She lingers for a second, possibly toying with the idea of chastising me for my words, but something changes her mind and she steps towards the next table, placing a hand on the shoulder of a girl with long red hair.
Once she is distracted, my hunger wins out, and I reluctantly reach for the lone piece of toast on the plate. I eye it suspiciously, wishing I knew if there was anything in it, but I can't tell. It just looks like a normal piece of bread, probably made by some dumbfuck in Amity.
"There's nothing in it. It's safe to eat."
The voice comes from next to me, from the smallest and most normal-looking person I've seen here so far. The girl comes up to my hunched over shoulders; her hair has been lopped off at a sharp angle slanting forward, and it hangs in her face. She's suddenly seated beside me, her legs somehow crossed in front of her, and she reaches forward to pick up a single pancake. I watch her set it on a paper plate; then, as neatly as one possibly can with plastic cutlery, she slices it into even sections. She glances at me once more, and seems to shrink back into herself at the look of disgust on my face.
"I promise."
I have no reason to believe her. I want to set the toast down, but my stomach lurches in protest of having nothing in it other than drugs. I nod curtly, refusing to thank her, and I take a bite.
I immediately regret it.
It's the weirdest bread I've ever eaten. I chew it way too many times, wondering who the fuck managed to make a piece of bread taste like wet sand, before Aidy rolls her eyes.
"There's nothing in it because it's gluten-free, and rumor has it that the serums don't actually stay in the food if there's no gluten. Usually, only Violet or Dr. Branger will eat that bread." She stabs her pancake with more force than necessary and scowls. "Bobby, move the fuck over. You're breathing too loudly."
Bobby glares for a moment, but his face lights up when we are joined by a man closer to my age. He is thin, his dark brown hair buzzed to a short length except for a mess on top. He nods at me in silent greeting, bobbing his head enthusiastically, and I notice his pupils are blown so wide he has to be pleasantly buzzed on something.
He makes himself at home, settling into the nonexistent space between Aidy and Bobby. He eyes me once more, then raises both of his eyebrows in mock delight.
"Who's the new guy?" he asks lazily, reaching for an entire pancake. I watch him with great disgust as he pours syrup all over it, then rolls it up and begins to eat it without bothering to cut it. "No, wait, let me guess. Dauntless? Am I right? I am right. I knew it." He pauses to wink at me before cocking his head to the side. "You wanna know how I knew? It's all that shit on your throat. All those weird lil blocks there. What'd you do to get locked up here? Piss off one of their big, bad, more tattooed leaders? Knock over one of their tattoo machines and spill all their ink?"
His words touch on the very last nerve that I have. I slam my hand down on the table, causing everyone in the room to jump. The girl beside me turns to stare at me, her fork halfway to her mouth and her brown eyes widening.
"Fuck off," I hiss, and the guy laughs in my face.
"You want me to fuck off? You fuck off. You're the one who's still in your intake clothing. Chill, bro."
His words are not meant to be taunting; I can tell by his slow hand gestures and his loopy smile that he's been partaking in something that isn't routinely offered here and he's simply too stoned to realize I'm not finding any humor in his words. But that means nothing to me. I stand up quickly, reaching across the table, and my hand is around his throat before he can blink.
"Do you know who I am?" I ask, my voice sounding lethal. I make sure my words are slow and purposeful, watching as he struggles a bit. His fingers fumble against my fist, but he has no chance of breaking free.
"Um…um…yes…yes, this is going badly," Bobby announces, and he glances around furiously. "Eric, put him down before someone notices. It's not really nice to-"
"I'm not nice," I remind them, tightening my grip. Right now I'm not really inflicting any actual harm to him; my grip is merely uncomfortable as it slowly cuts off his air supply, but I'll know just the moment when it becomes too much. "And I'm not going to chill because I'm not supposed to actually be here."
"None of us are," Bella announces solemnly.
I hadn't even noticed her at the table, but she's there now, blinking furiously as though there's something in her eye. "They're watching you, you know. The warlocks and the nurses."
Only part of her statement makes any actual sense, but she's right on one count. My new friend's face is now beet red, and before I can release him, I'm grabbed by two men in white who had clearly been watching me. They reach for my arms, pulling me back, but not realizing I'm standing in front of the bench seat. They struggle humorously for a moment as my legs hit the bench and my friend's face jerks forward as I am jerked backward.
"Oh, shoot, you're gonna be on red. Red, red, red," Bella repeats. She's nearly knocked over by another of the guards as he tries to help release my hands from the drugged-out idiot's throat, and she shoots him a dirty look. "Rude."
"Eric, let him go. Pete didn't mean anything by it. He's sorry, aren't you, Pete? Oh shit, oh no, my breakfast." Bobby sounds frantic, and I notice his pancakes have fallen off his plate. He grips his hair in frustration, and glances down at them. "That's okay. That's okay. I can fix this. I can fix this. PETE, ARE YOU SORRY YET?"
Pete tries to nod, and I let my grip lessen slightly. I have the uncontrollable urge to punch him, but it dies down when I hear Dr. Branger behind me, her voice tight and sharp, far less nice than earlier.
"Get him out of here."
"Eric, do you know why you're here? Why you're really here?"
Dr. Branger has resumed her doctor's voice and now sounds just like anyone from Erudite. Polite, yet condescending. Clinical and detached. After my altercation with Pete, she is now all business; she's had me dragged into an office that's well decorated in Erudite-approved awards and certificates. To anyone else, these would seem impressive. To me, they are nothing but garbage. They mean she's slaved her years away trying to prove to others just how valuable she is, how smart and necessary to her faction she is.
Only to end up here.
I throw her a venomous look, and I get a spark of satisfaction when she leans back away from me.
"You and I both know that I'm only here to cover for Jeanine," I remind her, leaning back in my own chair. "I won't be here long. So, sign off on whatever the fuck you need to and leave me the hell alone. I'm not here to have you fix me."
Dr. Branger blinks a few times and pulls out a pen. I watch as she then scrawls on the paper in front of her, and it makes me itchy that I can't see what she's writing.
"You're here on rather direct orders, courtesy of Jeanine. Did you know that? She's signed off on your treatment, allowing us to use the most aggressive form of treatment, if needed," Dr. Branger answers tightly, her eyes skating over me. "We've been told to rehabilitate you by whatever means necessary. Jeanine wants her best soldier back, at any cost."
I take in her words and my jaw clenches down.
"Any means, Eric. She's not above having you come back as someone else. Your fellow leaders all signed off as well, stating you're a possible threat to the faction and that they see this interference as necessary," she finishes, scribbling something else on the papers in front of her. I sit there silently, a slow dull rage starting somewhere in my stomach and rising up until I'm not sure if I'll scream or vomit.
"I worked for her—" I start to snarl, but Dr. Branger shakes her head.
"I'm aware of what you did for her. I know the sort of things she's asked you to do. I can help you. I can fix you," she says softly, and the room seems to tilt sideways. I wonder if she really knows everything. Did Jeanine tell her that she had me drag Divergents to her with their faces bloodied, their breathing labored? That I didn't always adhere to the "mostly alive" request from her, but that sometimes I went the extra step to rid Chicago of the vermin that crawled through the streets. Does she know that I did it without question because it was my job?
It was becoming crystal clear that none of that mattered, because I was here, sitting in front of a doctor who had a very different idea about my fate.
"Eric?" Dr. Branger is looking at me, her glasses nearly sliding off her nose. "Eric, are you alright?"
I look around the room, anywhere but at her, suddenly feeling clammy. I wipe my palms on my knees, the cheap fabric of the pants rough beneath them. The reality of the situation is crashing down around me, one second after the other.
I mentally run through my choices, trying to focus. I could give in, letting them drug me into oblivion until they think I'm acceptable to leave. Return to Dauntless and get myself off the shit they'd undoubtedly load me up on. I could try to bolt. I'd probably make it as far as the reception office if I was lucky, but I wasn't sure about the outside grounds. I could be miles from a road or just a few minutes. Or — and this was my very last and least desirable option — I could pretend to go along with their plans, offering up minimal resistance.
I look back at Dr. Branger, ignoring the way her pen is paused on her paper, and I unclench my jaw when I realize I'm royally fucked.
"Fine," I snap, and I shrug, ignoring the crawling sensation working its way up my spine. I make myself smile at her, despite the feeling of complete and utter claustrophobia dawning over me. "Do your worst."
"What did they do to you? Did they inject you with anything? Are you feeling dizzy? Lightheaded? Nauseous?"
Bobby questions me relentlessly, walking quickly to keep up with me. I'd been afforded the laughable luxury of walking myself to the assigned therapy session under the stern warning that walking anywhere but back to the hallway and down a few doors would result in some serious consequences. I wasn't dumb enough to take such a risk just yet. Even worse, my alone time was squashed by the appearance of Bobby, who'd clearly taken our forced breakfast together as a sign that we were now the best of friends.
"What did they do? She did nothing," I shrug, reading the signs outside the doors until I find the one labeled 'Therapy Room A.' I snicker at the memory of Dr. Branger as she dismissed me with a hopeful look on her face, and I reach for the door. "She told me to come here and sit through this session. How terrifying. I guess she really showed me."
My faux contempt echoes in the empty hallway. I'd decided I need to give them the illusion of control so they'd ease up on their intense scrutiny of me. Their interest wouldn't last forever if they thought I was slowly accepting their stupid program.
"You coming?" I turn to look at Bobby and I notice his face has changed from a look of concern to something of horror.
"You, uh, you heard anything about Dr. Erin's sessions yet?" he asks, twisting his fingers together.
"No, but how bad can they be?" I shoot him an annoyed look and he swallows heavily.
"Okay, well, then, uh, good luck today. Maybe she won't call on you," he offers up brightly, stepping in ahead of me. He doesn't look back, and I stand there for a second, counting to ten before I force myself through the door.
Twenty-two minutes later, I'd rather remove my own organs with a plastic spork than be sitting where I am.
The room is full of people, most of whom I haven't met. They alternate between looking weepy or totally insane. A few of them talk out of turn, loudly shouting out answers to questions no one is asking. I come to the conclusion that if they hadn't been placed in here, they would have been factionless, because there is no way any of them would ever be considered of any value to their faction.
Bobby sits on one side of me, shooting nervous looks at Pete sitting beside him. Pete looks completely fine now, but every once in a while, I catch him glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, trying hard not to look directly at me. Next to him is Aidy, half asleep with her feet propped up on the lap of the man beside her, who doesn't appear to notice.
"Violet, can you tell me how you felt when no one acknowledged that you were in the room? Is this a common occurrence?"
Dr. Erin is to the point, not mincing words at all with the poor soul seated next to me. The girl from breakfast had come in right after me, silently taking the remaining empty seat and curling herself up into some sort of acrobatic position. She'd been the doctor's sole focus so far; Dr. Erin seemed hell-bent on making sure Violet spoke up about her true feelings, continually asking if we understood why our actions made Violet feel the way she did.
It was enough to make me gag.
Violet clearly didn't want to talk. She'd spent most of the session with her head bent down, and every time Dr. Erin asked her questions, she shrank down a little bit further.
"Violet? Are you listening?" The doctor tries again, and this time, another few minutes pass while the room is painfully quiet. She fidgets beside me, and I realize that Violet is staring at my bare feet. I glare at her to make her look away, but I'm not sure she notices.
"It's fine." She finally raises her head up, meeting Dr. Erin's intense stare for maybe two seconds. She then goes back to her position and leans further against the armrest so she's almost touching me. I move away a fraction of an inch, grimacing as a single strand of her hair touches the bare skin of my arm.
"Fine?" Dr. Erin repeats, jotting down something in a notebook on her lap.
Her note-taking forces a wave of unease to wash over me. It was the same sort of tactic we might have used while interrogating someone. Making them feel as though we had the upper hand by jotting down things that we might be able to hold against them later. I watch the doctor carefully until her heated gaze lands on me.
"Alright, then. How about you, Eric? How do you feel joining our group today? This is your first group session since arriving here." She looks at me over her glasses. She's patient and calm, not at all bothered by the lack of participation. I hold her stare until she smiles softly. "Are you enjoying it so far?"
I raise an eyebrow at her.
"No."
"No?" Dr. Erin repeats. Her tone tells me she isn't overly impressed with my answer, but I don't care.
"Who the fuck would enjoy being here? This is a waste of time. Do you even know what's going on outside these walls? No. You're just stuck in here, talking about how you feel today."
The moment the words leave my mouth, I realize this might not be the best way to pretend that I'm not resisting their methods. But I can't help it. This therapy session is pointless, and I seem to be the only one aware of that fact.
"Eric…" Dr. Erin says my name and then trails off.
This must be unusual because the room grows even quieter. Bobby stifles a cough, and beside me, Violet tilts her head up a bit to look at me. I detect a hint of a smile flash across her lips, but it's fleeting.
"Well, I, for one, like being here," Bella pipes up from across the room, sounding far too snotty for someone in an insane asylum. I notice she's seated right beside Dr. Erin with her arms crossed over her chest. "I think this group is very helpful. I think maybe you'd be less murderous if you tried it. Less likely to try to kill someone over pancakes."
Her bravery is short-lived as soon as I make eye contact with her. She visibly withers as I hold her stare, then she eventually blinks rapidly and looks at Dr. Erin as though she can save her.
"Thank you, Bella," Dr. Erin begins, but she's interrupted by a knock on the door. "Yes?"
She sets the notepad down on her lap and the door opens to reveal a nurse, dressed entirely in the same white uniform as all the others. She smiles robotically at all of us. I notice she's holding a clipboard in her hand and my stomach lurches.
"Sorry to interrupt you, but I'm here to collect a few patients. The altercation in the cafeteria means they missed their morning doses, and we can't let them fall behind schedule."
Her voice is even and slick but my insides betray my cool exterior by sliding up into my throat. This was what I'd been dreading. I might be able to trick them into thinking I wasn't going to murder anyone, but I couldn't escape the fact that they had a very liberal utilization of medication. I knew they'd be eager to keep it in my system one way or another. They'd already proven that they could.
I almost regret telling Dr. Branger to do her worst.
The nurse's bland look falls to me and she motions for me to follow her. "I'll need Pete and Eric to come with me."
Fuck, no.
I make the snap decision that I'm not leaving. I'll sit through Dr. Erin yapping on for the rest of the day if it means not being drugged to the gills.
"I'm good, thanks." I lean back in my chair, returning my stare to Dr. Erin. She's observing me, patiently waiting for what comes next.
"I'm also good," Pete mirrors my position, crossing his ankle over his leg. "In fact," he pauses, smirking, "I'd say I'm already medicated enough."
The nurse isn't fazed. She smiles again, vacant as ever, and taps her pen on the clipboard. "Now, fellas. You don't want to overlap your medication times. It'll make you sick."
Neither of us move.
"Neither of you feel the need to take your medication today?" Dr. Erin asks, and I feel something move against my arm. I jerk away, glaring down at the girl beside me.
"Youcantakeitit'saplacebo." She murmurs the words so quietly I can't hear them, and I find myself growing more irritable by the minute.
"What?" I hiss at Violet, and she moves away from me, trying to rearrange herself.
"Violet, what did you say to Eric?" Dr. Erin is very interested in what's going on, but her words do nothing and Violet shakes her head.
"Nothing. I was just stretching," Violet answers, and this time, she sits up straighter. She pushes her hair out of her eyes, settling back until her feet are flat on the edge of her chair. "Can we break for a minute? I'd like to get some water. I'm feeling a little overwhelmed."
It's the most I've heard her speak, and I'm strangely grateful for her suggestion because Dr. Erin nods her head. "You know what, we've earned a break. We'll take five minutes. Eric and Pete, please follow the nurse out. Anyone who would like a drink, please take a minute to visit the water fountain, then return right back to your seats."
The room erupts in quiet chatter. People eagerly rise up, heading towards the heavy door we'd come in through. Violet stands up beside me, lingering even though she was the one who said she needed water. I follow suit with the rest of the room, ignoring Pete mumbling 'fuck this' and trying not to let anyone get too close to me. When I reach the doors, Violet slips past me, her arm brushing against mine as we wait to exit the room. I give her the benefit of the doubt and try not to shove her away from me.
"It's a placebo," she whispers again, this time so I can hear her. "The pills. The first set are always a placebo. It's just to see if you'll take them without a struggle. The second dose is a sedative if you don't take the first one easily. They'll repeat it until you take them without thinking about it."
I cock my head at her, unsure of what to think. A million thoughts run through my head. I can't even begin to know if I should trust her, but for some reason, I nod my head.
"Okay," I answer as I slip through the door towards the waiting nurse.