Last Resort
My bouts of depression always seem to hit harder after I've had a string of good luck.
For nearly two weeks, things had gone fairly well. With my energy windfall, I paid up my salvage license, bought some new bedding, stored up some food and power supplies for the approaching winter, got a cheap insulation cover for my tent, a good overcoat, new boots, good gloves, and even managed at least one meal and one hot drink every day. When I recall those two weeks now, I cannot remember any sense of foreboding, nor any feeling that it was the calm before the storm.
It was almost as if the storm had already begun, and I had simply failed to notice it.
Indeed, the only even slightly negative thing that happened to me for a fortnight, was an almost nightly recurrence of that strange nightmare, with trees and fog and grassy hills, and one lone star staring at me from far away.
And the strangest part was that, by the end of the time, it had almost ceased to be a nightmare. The mist and trees and stones I did not know - almost, they had become my friends. I very nearly looked forward to seeing them every night now. Even the star slowly became a beacon trying to guide me home.
The sight and smell of it all, even if it was only a dream, had filled some part me I didn't know was empty. Some primal part of my Human brain that wanted earth and forest, herb and stone, warm, full breezes, and cool, rushing rivers.
I tried to push away the longing of it, and how lonely, how desperately lonely I felt, had felt, ever since Frank had died.
For fifteen days, I put my panel sets out every night, and with good luck and hard work, managed to save up a few extra tokens for a rainy day.
"Rain" comes on day sixteen, which, ironically, happens to be the sunniest morning we've had in over a month.
I wake up, and immediately hate everything. The world, myself, the wind, the sun - everything. I decide not to get out of bed.
That's my first mistake.
Purely black moods don't overtake me all that often - usually, when I spiral downwards, I go kicking and screaming, snide and snippy and snarky and sardonic. Undiluted surrender isn't normally my style - I like some humor with my gallows. But this time, there's just. . . nothing. I'm empty. The hoard has come for me, and I have no reserves of strength to fight it.
For three days, I don't eat. I don't leave my tent. I barely move from my bedroll. When I sleep, I don't dream. Mostly, I just stare at nothing. I have a few bottles of water in my tent now, and warmer bedding, so I manage to stay alive, but I've lost sight of anything I'm working towards - if there ever was anything to begin with. I convince myself there wasn't.
That's my second mistake.
On the fourth day, I wake up with the inevitable fever and chills. I've known it was coming for days now, but couldn't bring myself to care - a low immune system, no sun, lack of nutrients, cold draughts. . . I've got the 'flu.
I suffer through it for two days. Only a Health Inspector making rounds of the Rim camps makes me go see a doctor, and even then, I drag my feet for another twenty-six hours.
That's my third mistake.
People with Inspector's orders to see a doctor must report within twenty-four hours, or their case is bumped up in urgency. Instead of a safe, random doctor from North-3, I have to go see my family's old GP, Dr. Woolsey.
Not that there's anything wrong with him, of course, save that he knows everything about me, my family, and my history.
There's no hiding my condition from him - mental or physical - no waffling, no stonewalling, no faking it.
So I don't try.
That's my fourth mistake.
"Now, I know you're not going to like this, Claire," he says, after his examination, "But I am going to recommend you for special quarantine."
"Special qua. . . quarantine?" I croak, my throat gravelly and sore, "What's that?"
"Well. . ." he pauses, and looks at me sidelong. "It will go through the Central Committee much more quickly if I call it a petition for you to visit your Uncle Quentin."
"Lamb?" I almost growl, confused, "Why would I visit him?"
"You wouldn't, clearly," he says, not without some mild censure, "But I'm sending you to Cold Island 12, and that's final."
Cold Island 12? That's where all the Skycities of the Atlantic send their mental cases, their soldiers with PTSD, their terminally ill and hopelessly senile. It's essentially our loony bin. Uncle Lamb was sent there ages ago, for trying to "excavate a pyramid" on New Reykjavík. Really, he just filled his rooms with trash, and slowly sifted though it until he found the furniture again. Uncle Lamb? More like black sheep. My parents used to threaten me with a visit to him to get me to do my homework or clean my room.
"But. . . why?" I'm depressed, yes, not crazy. Not yet, anyway.
"Because it's a change of scene. And you need one."
I vehemently disagree. But I'm too tired to fight, so I don't.
That's my worst mistake.