part two: tritone
The Yeerk retained control throughout my entire psychiatric session following the incident. It seemed to have realized after awhile that the only way out of the Institution was to cooperate with the shrinks. And the Yeerk wanted out.
That's what's so similar between you and me, > said the Yeerk, whose name was Arete 282, as it made me follow a social worker back to the common room. We both want our freedom, and neither of us can have it. >
I'm not addicted to oatmeal, > I retorted.
No, > said the Yeerk, but are you addicted to despair? >
The truth of the statement gave me pause, until I realized something. You shouldn't know that, > I growled. You shouldn't be in my head . . . reading every private thought! >
My anger startled the Yeerk. I felt its influence go weak, then slip. For a second, I stumbled, but quickly regained control over my legs. I hummed softly to make sure I could speak, then said, "Um, could I go back to Doctor Sweeney's office? I forgot to tell her something . . . important."
The man I was following stopped, sighed, and asked, "Is it an emergency?"
I bit my lip, reluctant to say yes and ruin my chances of an earlier exit from the Institution. But then again, getting Arete 282 out of my head was top priority. "Yes."
Nodding, the man turned, and I followed him back to Doctor Sweeney's office.
"Leanne," the Doctor said, eyebrows raised.
"She says she forgot to tell you something important," the man reported. "Says it's an emergency."
"Sit down, Leanne," said Doctor Sweeney, motioning for the man to leave. "What seems to be the trouble?"
I looked at my feet, trying to gather the courage to say what needed to be said.
"Are you planning to kill yourself?"
Funny. The thought hadn't even entered my brain since the Yeerk made it his residence. I shook my head.
"Do you feel like hurting anyone?"
"No!" I shot down that question immediately. "I . . . have a slug in my head." The words came out flat, simple, quite unlike the eloquent speech I had been planning.
"A slug?"
I nodded.
"Are you hearing voices?" Doctor Sweeney leaned forward and snatched a notebook on her desk, then scribbled something inside it.
"Well, it's not exactly like hearing . . . not with my ears. But with my mind. The slug, he calls himself a Yeerk. He's named Arete 282. He can contol me some of the time."
"What does he tell you to do?"
I frowned. "He doesn't tell me, he makes me do it. Makes my arms move, makes me speak . . . He was controlling me when I talked to you earlier. He can read my mind, so you'd never know it wasn't me."
"How long has this been going on?"
I shivered when I remembered the cloud of blood that had started it all. "Since . . . the stabbing in the pool. When I almost drowned."
The Doctor wrote a few more notes. "I'm glad you told me this, Leanne. I'm going to try you out on some new meds for the next few days, while you recover from your near death experience." She closed her notebook, then stood up, prompting me to leave.
I remained seated. "But I'm not making this up! It's not just in my head! I mean, it is in my head, but . . . you know what I mean. I need somebody to take this Yeerk out of my head!"
"Wait a couple of days, Leanne," said the Doctor. "With this new medication, your Yeerk delusions will soon disappear."
I gritted my teeth and walked out of the room, muttering, "We'll see about that."
I tried to talk about Arete in group therapy that afternoon, only to receive several chuckles. Embarrassed, I retreated into a grim mood that entire evening. I stomped off to bed and stared at the darkened ceiling for hours, the light from the hallway casting deep shadows. All patients were required to keep their doors open so that they could be more closely monitored by one of the Institution's staff. That night's nurse was a redhead, fairly petite, who looked much older than her thirty-two years. I imagined that the past few weeks had visually aged me past my own twenty-three years, but I hadn't had access to a mirror since I was admitted to the Institution, and therefore could not know if my theory was correct.
I missed my piano, too. I used to write songs, had dreamed of someday publishing them, but that, along with all my other aspirations, had become less and less important to me as my depression deepened. But for some reason, staring at the strange shadow-shapes on the textured ceiling, I felt like playing and playing and never stopping. I wondered how the notes would sound against the background of my air conditioner. I wondered what the song pressing at my lips would sound like if I had the freedom to sing it. Tears threatened to come, so I pinched myself. Hard. The tears faded, but the song did not. Would not.
Mentally, I stepped on the
conductor's podium, cued the violins, and lost myself in the music until,
in a dissonant note, Arete took my place.