Thank you SO much BK2U for editing this lovely chapter for me. I'll send you the next two so you don't get bored or anything ;)
I wanted to announce that this will probably be the final chapter I post on FF. NET. The overall response is pretty nonexistent, and I don't want to post it where people won't read it [And I totally get it's a fairly out there premise!] I will probably continue it on other sites, so this is just a heads up.
To those who have reviewed and followed along, thank you so much! You're awesome! Now go and enjoy Eric trying to figure out just what exactly he can do to save himself from the looney bin! ;)
Dauntless may never give up, but this time, she does.
Her fingers, desperate and white-knuckled, slip off the rail one by one as her eyes flash up at me one final time. They are full of fear, tinged with the tiniest bit of anger, then finally acceptance as she lets go, disappearing into the rushing waters below. I stare down as her small form slices through the water, plunging her far beneath the surface and into the dark swirl of the underground currents.
My lips press together, fighting off the urge to smirk at her misfortune.
She won't survive.
Max won't be happy that we've lost one so soon into the training, but the other initiates will understand why she went the way she did. I can see the raw panic washing over them as their eyes widen and their mouths fall open. A full minute passes before they realize that they've witnessed what happens when you don't know your place in Dauntless.
They've watched their competition — to some, their friend, and to others, their foe — fall to her death for disobedience. Some stare at the water, some stare at the rocks behind me, and most stare at the grate flooring that we're standing on. One in particular looks ill, her hand flying to her mouth in shock, her brown eyes widening in despair that she couldn't save her — or maybe that she wasn't brave enough to try and save her.
After a few minutes, I smile as a few of them recoil in horror when they finally realize Christina's body has yet to surface.
I hold on tighter, gagging once more as the nausea rushes over me.
"You okay there, or are you gonna puke all night long?"
Pete's voice floats up over the ancient metal of a rusty stall. His voice is oddly concerned, yet mostly grossed out. His appearance comes from out of nowhere, and while it warms my heart that he'd even question if I was okay, I can't answer him.
I'm too busy throwing up everything I've eaten in the past few days, maybe even years.
"I'm fine," I eventually manage to gasp, trying to keep my stomach from violently contracting again. I had woken up abruptly as my dream faded away to an overwhelming wave of nausea. I was barely able to stumble to the bathroom before throwing up last night's dinner. I felt defeated as I then continued to throw up repeatedly, until my own knuckles were white.
She'd never fallen, but I had.
This felt worse than anything I'd ever experienced, and I couldn't tell if it was the lingering dream or the burning of my stomach.
My first assumption was that it was something I ate, but I'd been especially careful to choose only things I'd decided were safe. Fruit, the weird bland toast, the eggs if they looked cooked enough, sandwiches made from the special bread that no one else would touch, and last night, the chicken.
It had looked harmless enough, but now I furiously swear off it for life as I start to gag again, only to sigh in relief when it ends suddenly.
"The fuck is wrong with you?"
Pete's face is the first thing that greets me as I exit the bathroom, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand and trying to compose myself. Nothing was less respectable than vomiting up your guts like a brand new initiate on a bender, let alone in the communal bathroom of a mental institution. Before I can glare at him, Pete scrunches his nose at me, taking in my shirt and then my sweaty forehead and finally my sweat-soaked hair.
"You uh, maybe you should take a shower? You still look a little green."
I ignore him and his strange concern until I catch sight of myself in the mirror. Gone is the clean-shaven Eric that was brought here, and in his place is a man who does look sort of green — actually, really green — and unkempt. I have long pieces of hair falling every which way and an unshaven face since no one really trusts me enough to hand me a razor. I blink my eyes in disbelief. Had I passed myself while out on patrol, I'd have assumed I was factionless.
That very thought hangs over my head, and I sigh heavily at Pete.
"Yeah, maybe," I grunt, hoping I have the strength to even make it to the shower. I wonder why he's up and in here, but then again, I really don't care. I squint at myself in the mirror, shaking my head in disgust.
"I think I have food poisoning," I mutter, but Pete doesn't look like he believes me.
"I'll be right back."
He says the words and I can hear the door shut, the room falling oddly silent. I splash some water on my face, hoping it'll calm me down, but it does nothing but make me look like a nauseated, drowned rat. Moments later, Pete returns before I can truly relish in being alone, eyeing me like I might throw up all over him. He has a reluctant-looking Kenan with him, and they both point to the showers.
"I'll give you twenty minutes, Dauntless. Then we'll have you go to the nurse and see what's up. They can give you something that'll help," Kenan announces, staying near the wall, completely unwilling to come any closer for fear of catching whatever I have. I feel a wave of exhaustion wash over me, the lack of sleep combined with the rolling feeling in my stomach, and I have to take a deep breath until I can look at him.
His expression is one of pity, and I grow hot when I realize this is the second time he's looked at me like that.
"I'm fine," I sneer, forcing myself to head towards the shower. I've made up my mind that I'll feel better once I'm clean, but I can't shake the shitty, shaky feeling that's made itself at home in my stomach.
It stays there while I shower, reminding me of the feeling I had the first time I experienced defeat in Dauntless.
It's nearly three in the morning when the nurse injects something into my arm.
She smiles at me in a very polite-yet-tired manner, holding on to my forearm until she's done with the shot, then holding me still for a moment. Her actions feel strange, her fingers on the darkest ink of my skin, and she looks vaguely compassionate when her eyes meet mine.
"Almost done," she offers up sympathetically, though I doubt she's really very concerned. I'm nothing more than a patient here, no one that she actually gives a fuck about. She does a great job of pretending, though, even watching my expression carefully.
"What is it?" I ask warily, eyeing the syringe as she finishes injecting the medicine straight into my veins.
Since coming here, I've been injected with more things than I care to remember, but for some reason, this one makes me nervous. She could be making me sicker, weakening me so I can't fight back for whatever they have planned, or she could be poisoning me as I sit here.
She claims it'll stop the vomiting.
"It's an antiemetic. You should start to feel better in about fifteen minutes. But if you feel like you need to vomit, there's a waste bin right beside you. This might make you feel a little tired, but typically there are few side effects and you should be able to sleep this off. If the vomiting continues, we'll have you come back here for further evaluation."
She tosses the syringe into the trash, then turns to place her hands on her hips.
"You don't have any other symptoms. No fever, your pulse is normal, heart rate is within normal range." She pauses, and I find myself staring back at her blankly. The urge to throw up is still there, but it's tolerable now. "With some patients, this happens after an emotional breakthrough. You can often feel sick or dizzy after an intense therapy session."
"Doubtful," I hiss, and she purses her lips together.
"You aren't sick," she says slowly. "It's more than likely all in your head. But that doesn't mean it isn't real."
I debate asking her where in Erudite she obtained her doctorate, and when that didn't pan out, what made her choose working here. But my brain feels like mush, so I shake my head, closing my eyes when the action makes me feel dizzy. "You're wrong if you think this happened because I said my name in therapy. That's not it. It's something I ate. The food here is barely edible."
"It's not that bad," she offers up, and I pry one eye open to glare at her. She tries not to smile at my nasty tone, the corners of her lips twitching up a bit. "But I'll let the kitchen staff know you aren't enjoying it."
I slump back against the wall, flexing my arm as she moves to the counter. She makes her notes without looking at me, and I close my eyes as another wave of nausea, this time weaker, washes over me.
"How long did you say this would take to work?" I ask, wondering if she'd mind if I threw up on her. Maybe that would drive home my point that the food here is shit.
"Fifteen minutes is the usual reaction time. Why don't you go lie down, and I'll have someone come and check on you? If you're not feeling better, we'll go from there."
I nod, not really wanting to walk anywhere, but it's better than staying here. She gives me a moment to collect myself, and I do my best to stalk past her without looking back. The hallway is dark and quiet, the lights dimmed to a night setting, but still brighter than those in Dauntless.
I walk past a few orderlies patrolling the hallways, the same way I used to prowl through Dauntless just looking for someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. They all watch me with the same cold stare, eyes trained on me as I round the corner, my muscles feeling tight with irritation.
The irony hurts more than I'd like to admit.
They let me sleep until I wake up on my own.
For once, no one wakes me during their routine checks, or maybe I'm too drugged to hear them; whatever the case may be, they let me sleep off whatever it was I had. I finally wake up after what seems like days, blinking in the bright afternoon sunlight. I'm no longer nauseous, but I do feel rather angry as I sit up, remembering that I'm still stuck here.
"Fuck."
I mutter the word to no one, shoving the sheets back. So far, my plan to pretend to assimilate is failing, and there is nothing I hate more than failure. I'd made one attempt to blend in, and in turn had wound up vomiting uncontrollably. The frustration is heavy as my feet hit the ground, knowing that my chances of escaping are slipping through my fingers with each passing day. The longer I'm here, the easier it will be for them to control me. To drug me as they see fit, to inject whatever they need or want into my system, presumably to prepare me for when they've had enough of my stay and decide I'm done here.
There is a prick of nervousness that happens after that thought, but I force it away.
I try to rationalize my thinking, that I'm not just being ridiculous. The very grim reality is that they could easily wipe my memory, leaving me to bumble through their hallways until I die. To listlessly live out my life here, or maybe even send me to the factionless. The worst part of it would be that I'd never know. Or maybe I would. Maybe a small part of my brain would retain who I was, reminding me in the most quiet moments that I'd had a life before all this.
I can't decide what's worse.
"FUCK THIS."
I swear again, feeling altogether miserable at the thought of what could be coming, almost positive that this will be my future.
"You rang?"
The response throws me off as Bobby appears in my doorway, bringing my morbid thoughts to a halt. He stands there grinning happily, holding a tall cup out at me.
"I brought you some tea. They said it would help your stomach since you missed breakfast and lunch. I didn't think you'd want to eat, and dinner isn't for a few more hours, but Aidy said she has crackers if you need them."
He doesn't come into my room; instead, he waits for me to walk to him. I wonder how his mind has managed to convince him we are friends, but it doesn't matter. I gratefully take the cup from him, surprised that they let him wander off with a scalding beverage, and I take a sip.
I'm not surprised to find that it's lukewarm.
"Thanks," I mutter. "What time is it?"
"Three thirty," he answers cheerfully. "Everyone is in group therapy except for me. It should be over now, though. Dr. Erin said something about ending early because she wasn't feeling well."
"Why aren't you in it?" I ask, swirling the cup and watching the tea slosh around for a moment. It reminds me of my stomach this morning so I stop, instead taking a sip of the drink.
"Well, I uh, I got kicked out for telling Bella to jump off a cliff. Dr. Erin didn't think that was very nice." Bobby looks guilty at his words, but he plays it off like he's cool, shrugging indifferently.
My lips curl up, the barest of nasty smiles emerging. He looks torn at his weak insult, but his actions towards the most annoying girl in this place bring me unexpected joy. I could pat him on his shoulder if I was into rewarding positive behavior.
"Good for you."
I take another sip of the barely warm tea, following after him towards the rec room, dreading what's awaiting me.
Instead of heading directly to the rec room, we make a quick stop at the nursing station.
Bobby explains he just needs to grab something, which is a thinly-veiled way of saying he needs to take his mandatory and not-at-all optional medication. I watch him throw back what looks like five or six pills, the gaggle of nurses staring at me from behind him. For once, they don't demand I take anything, and I realize this might be my chance to feel drug free. I might actually get to have a clear mind without something in my system if I can manage to keep them away from me.
"How are you feeling, Eric?"
One of them, the youngest of all with a nametag that reads Shelley, is smiling at me from behind the counter as she ignores Bobby. She bats her eyes at me as she toys with a notebook in her hands, her green eyes never leaving my unimpressed sneer. She has an easier look to her than the others, and if she were in Dauntless, I'd be able to take her home and fuck her before she even knew what was going on. She must be new here, and I can only presume she hasn't been told to stay away from me yet.
"Great. Can I borrow that?" I ask, giving in to her flirtatious stare just a bit and pointing at the notebook. "I'm supposed to be writing a few things down."
I throw her something that's less a sneer and more a dark smile. I wait while she bites at her lip, chewing nervously for a moment as she mentally debates handing me the notebook. She'll be stupid to fall for my excuse, for I'd rather chew my own hand off than write down a single word about how I'm feeling, but she doesn't know that.
"What do you need it for, Coulter?"
One of the older nurses eyes me suspiciously, her gaze much sharper than Shelley's.
"I told you," I snap, my words dripping with disdain. "I missed therapy. I'm supposed to write my thoughts down since I didn't get the chance to share them with everyone."
The nurse glares at me, and I wonder if she really believes the lie.
"I think it's okay. I mean, he missed his therapy class. Dr. Branger wouldn't want him to fall behind." Shelley cocks her head to the side at her superior, and the woman eyes me critically. I keep the nasty grin on my face, hoping she realizes that I could always reach over and shove the notebook pages down her throat.
"Alright. That should be fine." She finally gives in, and the redheaded newbie smiles brightly as she hands me the notebook.
"Thanks." I cock an eyebrow at her, turning away from her before Bobby can utter a single word.
He seems to understand that he should keep his mouth shut, because he follows after me silently.
The rec room is nearly silent for once.
Everyone is either half asleep or too drugged to notice my grand entrance. It feels odd to walk into a room where people don't cower in my presence. I reluctantly take the seat on the couch beside Violet after Bobby takes the empty seat across from her. I am grateful for the silence, as I'm now fully prepared to use my time as wisely as possible.
Instead, I'm interrupted when Violet nearly kicks me as she unfolds herself out of her acrobatic position.
"Who was that man that came to see you?"
She asks me curiously, quietly, nearly silently, as she settles back down beside me. The reading room isn't quite as full as I'd seen it before, but I had found myself taking the seat beside her out of unfortunate habit.
"This chair sucks," Bobby announces loudly, kicking his feet off of the beat-up coffee table in the middle. I can hear it squeak as he kicks it again and again, until he finally slams his feet back on top of it. I grit my teeth, trying hard not to kill him for making so much noise.
I'm not quite sure why he was expecting anything better, because so far, our accommodations here have been dismal. The furniture in this room is all old, and it makes me wonder where it was scavenged from. The loveseat we are sitting on is a hideous pink color, but it's comfortable and worn in. I try not to think about the crazies who sat here before me, probably drooling their afternoons away.
"Eric, that guy, he had a uniform on. Did you have the same one?" Violet asks me, still waiting for my answer. For some reason, her words irk me, implying that my uniform is a thing of the past. I lean back against the couch, nearly squashing her, and I open up the notebook I'd found on my dresser as she squirms to the side.
"He's a fellow leader in Dauntless. He came to inform me what's going on there," I bark at her, still unwilling to believe that he'd told me that I'd be here for two months. There was no way I'd actually carry out such a sentence, and it feels uncomfortable to think about it. Violet doesn't need to know that.
"Oh," Violet answers, and she sounds strangely disappointed. "Will he come back?"
This time, I turn to look at her.
"Yes, he'll keep me updated until I'm out of this shithole. I need to know what's going on in my faction. I can't just spend my days sitting here and talking about how I feel."
I snap the words at her, feeling the smallest, barest twinge of regret when she seems to shrink away from me. My words are not a personal insult to her, but she blinks, then looks down. I realize she's reading the same thing as the day before, but now with a black-and-white bookmark sticking out a few pages ahead.
"He didn't stay long," she whispers, and my eyes flash at her. "I saw when I was walking back that he was leaving. He looked nervous."
I smirk.
"I'm sure he was," I retort, turning my attention back to the notebook in front of me. In addition to the notebook, I'd also been granted the rare luxury of a pen, though I'm not sure that was a wise decision. I could easily stab someone's eye out, or push it through their windpipe if I tried hard enough. I poise my pen over the paper, prepared to start making notes so I won't forget what's happened to me since I've been here, and I stop in horror when I realize something.
I have no clue what day it is.
I have no clue how long I've been here.
I try to think back to when they brought me here, my mind racing wildly as I try to count the days. But I can't, because it's all a messed-up blur. Between being isolated, being sedated multiple times, waking up in the middle of the night and falling asleep midday, I can't figure it out.
The nausea returns and my stomach turns over sharply.
"What day is it?" I ask Violet, my words sharp and tight. I hate having to ask her, but out of everyone here, she's the most likely to know.
"Thursday," she replies, and she looks up at me again. "Are you trying to keep track of how long you've been here?"
She locks eyes with me, and this time, I nod my head without a second thought. Her eyes are so dark that they almost look black. I jerk my stare to the side, noticing that her hair looks rough, like someone hacked it off with kitchen shears, but it's dark and shiny and in far better shape than anyone else's.
"You've been here a little over a week," she answers quietly, her fingers skimming over the edge of the book.
"What?" I nearly drop my pen. "That's not right. There's no way it's been a week. I got here on…"
Violet waits patiently for me to answer her.
But I can't.
I swallow, turning to stare at the blank pages in the notebook.
I can't remember when I got here, let alone how many nights I've been stuck here.
Fuck.
Forty-five minutes later, the page is still blank. I can't bring myself to write down anything now that I can't remember the date, and the whole idea seems pointless. I have the urge to throw the notebook at the wall, but I don't. I just sit there, watching Violet occasionally turn the pages in her book, until Pete appears in front of me, telling us it's time to leave. I stand up, my actions painfully automatic, and I head towards the door, preoccupied with my own thoughts.
My brain is still whirling, working over what to do. Not knowing the date is dangerous. In Dauntless, initiates barely knew what day it was, and that was a concrete decision on our part. We purposely didn't count down their days for them, letting them flail around in a blur of training and sleep. They either worked harder at an endless pace, or they let it get the best of them and gave up in exhaustion.
This felt oddly like that, uncomfortable and purposeful. I bite down on my cheek as I make it to the doors when someone taps my shoulder, effectively jarring me out of my head.
"You smoke?"
I turn around in surprise, for not many ever dare to touch me. I stop abruptly, halfway through the door, causing Violet to crash into me. I shove her out of the way, one hand grasping her bicep to keep her upright when she stumbles.
"Why?"
I stare at Pete, my hand still on Violet's arm, as Bobby frantically tries to wedge himself near me. It seems that everyone in this place is needy, always vying for attention or wanting to be noticed. Bobby is no exception, and he reminds me of some of the initiates as they would desperately claw their way through the rankings, trying to press a reminder into our minds of just how worthy they were of staying. I glare at him when he knocks my hand away from Violet, placing his hands on his hips when she takes a step back, her eyes narrowing at Bobby.
"Do you? I thought you might." Pete is staring at me with a funny expression, one far too hopeful-looking for someone that I'd tried to strangle.
"He can't go. He does not have that privilege. And you know that!" Bobby announces loudly, while I continue to chew on the side of my cheek. "He's still on…"
"He can go," Pete retorts, looking slightly put out. "I can take him with me. Guest pass. I have a ton of them."
"Well, no. You should be using them on someone else. Someone who actually smokes. And smoking isn't good for you. It causes cancer among a multitude of other things, and besides, didn't you lose your guest passes after they caught you and…"
"Where do you smoke at?" I interrupt Bobby, taking a step closer to Pete. I don't smoke, not routinely. But if Pete is stepping outside, then I will willingly inhale nicotine for a few minutes just to get a better idea of where we are. "Outside?"
Pete nods, a slow smile crossing his lips. "Yeah, man. We'll go sign out. We get a few breaks during the day. You normally have to be on a higher color, but Shelley's working the check out. She'll let you come with me."
"Pete, that's not…"
"Lead the way," I smile, ignoring Bobby's high-pitched protest as I follow after Pete without a second thought, striding purposefully past a few mindless patients milling around.
The fresh air feels almost luxurious on my skin.
I take a drag from the cigarette, effectively ruining said fresh air when I exhale a cloud of smoke.
Turns out Shelley isn't just new, she's an idiot. She didn't ask what color I'm on, nor did she bother to even check. She gave both of us laminated cards that reminded me of something from my lower level schooling, then pointed to the large doors at the end of the hallway. Pete had winked at her, and the two of us left before she could say anything else. We walked down several flights of stairs until we reached the bottom, then Pete typed in a code that opened up the heavy doors below an exit sign.
I memorized every step we'd taken, including the code.
4321 wasn't really a blistering password, but it was easy enough to remember.
"Changes every day," Pete informs me when he notices me watching. "Sometimes they forget. But it's supposed to be something different so no one remembers it."
I nod, and seconds later, the doors open up to a large outdoor area that backs up to the forest. It doesn't take long for me to realize it's fenced in. It isn't as high as the fences surrounding the city, but it's high enough that it can't be scaled, or at least no one would want to try. The top has what I can only assume is electrified wire, combined with a few sharp spikes that stick up every few inches.
"I bet you're wondering if anyone's ever climbed that?" Pete raises an eyebrow at me, and he grins. "Bobby tried. Once. Made it halfway up the security lookout before he had a panic attack. It took four guards to get him down from there. Spent a week in solitary since they thought he was a threat, like he could actually get out. The only threat was to the poor guys who had to drag him up the staircase."
I nod, taking another drag of the cigarette before I decide to play nice.
"How long have you been here?"
Pete's cheeks flush red at my question. He rubs at the back of his neck and I watch him mentally debate his answer for far too long.
"Close to a year," he finally mutters.
He then tosses the cigarette to the ground, and kicks at it with his shoe. I notice he's got a fairly normal pair of trainers on, though there are no shoelaces in them.
"A year. Why?" I stretch my shoulders back, not really giving a fuck why he's here. I try to scan the area behind him, looking for anything that could be helpful. Unfortunately, there's nothing remarkable there. Just tree after tree, with a thick patch of leaves that cover any trail that might be visible.
"I uh…fighting. I got kicked out for fighting." His answer is mumbled, and then he shrugs at me. "It's uh, frowned upon. And before you ask why they didn't just make me factionless, I was having some…some personality issues. That was what they said. They sort of stuck up for me, but I ended up here. I guess I haven't made enough progress to be let out yet."
I feel the familiar prick of irritation at his words, because all they do is reaffirm my theory that no one ever leaves.
"Have you ever seen anyone leave here? Ever?" I ask, and I shut my eyes when he shakes his head.
"Well, one guy. He was brought here from Erudite. Had on weird clothing. I thought maybe he was from Candor, but the rumors said otherwise. They brought him down to another level. We only saw him a few times at meals. Barely spoke, never made eye contact. Eventually he looked normal, though. They let him out after a few months, but it was weird. He asked to stay longer, but these guys came and picked him up."
Pete tilts his head to the side, and he stares right at me. "He screamed for a while when they came to get him, until they injected him with something. Dr. Branger said he was suffering from a panic disorder. Never saw him after they took him."
"Lovely." I toss the butt of the cigarette to the ground, and turn back to the building. I glance up a few stories, and I swear I can see faces looking out of one of the windows. "Where would you go if you left?"
Pete shoves his hands in his pockets, and it's easy to see he's clearly uncomfortable.
"Dunno, man. Maybe…maybe back home? You'll go back to Dauntless when you're done here?"
I ignore his question when the face in the window vanishes and something pulls at my spine.
"What are the other levels? Are there patients on all of them?"
"Uh, I guess. I've only been down one floor. Electrotherapy. Dr. Branger doesn't believe in it, except in really low doses. I've only had it done once. Never again. It did cure my urge to punch Bobby, though."
I nod, my stare stuck to the window as the face comes back, blurring before my very eyes.
"You uh, you ready to go back in?"
"In a minute," I answer him, staring at the windows.
There's something odd about this place, about Pete's story of a man he never saw except for a few times, and about this face in the window, watching my every move.
"How hard is it to get to the lower floors?" I ask.
Pete smirks and shakes his head.
"Man, all you gotta do is be crazy enough. They'll take you anywhere you want."
"What happens on the other floors?"
I hiss the words at Violet, taking the seat beside her. I'd fallen into the depressing routine of sitting at the same table as before. It was full of familiar faces, including Bobby, Aidy, Bella — who looked like she was due for her next mental breakdown — Pete, and Violet. I sit down by Violet, taking up enough space to make sure no one else could sit on our side of the bench.
"Have you been on them?"
She looks up from her plate of noodles and I notice she looks strange. Her expression shows a few signs of horror, but it mostly stays neutral, like she can't show how she really feels, or maybe she doesn't want to tell me.
"Um, yeah. They're treatment floors." She pauses, and she leans in towards me. "You have to be taken down there. But you don't want to be. Why, did they say you're going down there?"
I shake my head no, keeping my mouth shut when an orderly slams a plate of toast down in front of me.
"Compliments of the chef, your majesty."
I ignore him, looking at Violet instead. "Why were you down there?"
This time she stays mostly silent, ducking her head down towards her plate and answering so softly that I can barely hear her.
"It was for the best."