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I love my job. Helping the injured and sick calls to me. It’s a part of who I am. It’s what drives me each day. The hospital is a for-profit institution, so it’s ridiculously well-equipped and always over-staffed. The hospital administration picks and chooses patients, so there are a lot of research subjects and not that many terrible emergencies. But why would there be many terrible emergencies among the healthy, fed and educated Elites? The bitter part of me that will always see the difference between their kind and mine rumbles.
It’s why I try to help people as much as I can when I’m on my side of the wall. I might not have the fancy machines like they do here, but sometimes a little goes a long way. I wish I could do more for others on my side of the wall.
I’m at work for maybe five minutes when I get a page to see my supervisor. I know exactly what this is about. Dread sits deep into my stomach. I try to keep calm and relax my face as I make my way to her office. I don’t want to give any of my emotions away. It’s harder to keep your nose down when you’re being called center stage.
I knock softly on her door. She looks up at me, waving me in with a smile on her face. It doesn’t meet her eyes. It never does. I stand in front of her, waiting as she leans back in her seat and takes off her glasses, setting them on her spotless desk.
“Your twenty-fifth birthday is coming up,” she says calmly. Her dark eyes glance over me. I know she is measuring me up because to her I’m only a piece of property, something that’s put in its place and does as it’s told.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why aren’t you married yet?” It’s a question, but it sounds more like an accusation.
The directness takes me aback. I thought it might be handled with more ease. Why I thought that, I have no idea. I should know better by now. Even though under Regime law, it’s completely legal to discuss an employee’s age and marital status as conditions to employment or continued employment, it’s no less jarring.
I straighten my spine and remind myself to not give attitude. “You know, I hadn’t given it much thought,” I lie. The untruth comes easier than I like.
She shakes her head and lets out a laugh, which tells me she doesn’t think this is funny at all. “That’s surprising, considering your age and status.” Yes, because I must be dying to get married to an Elite. To be picked at random. The thought is not only terrifying but coated with a lonely sadness.
“If you say so, ma’am,” I answer respectfully and bite the inside of my cheek to keep from telling her to mind her damn business and not to worry about me. While I don’t want a wall to separate the people, it doesn’t mean I have a desire to live on this side of the wall. I know my place if I have to pick side. I just don’t want to pick. Heck, I don’t know what I want.
“You were plucked out of extreme poverty and given a scholarship to rescue you from non-elite society. This is a rare gift for an orphan and an illegitimate girl, but you were a rare female mind. I hope you will not squander everything the Regime has invested in you. Consider your options, and I hope there will be plans—soon—for marriage.”
Her words are meant to be dismissive, but the light I seen outside flickers through my mind. The memory that was trying to push forward flutters a little more in my mind. My mother.
“I’m not an orphan.” I say the words more firmly than I should. “My mother was taken by the government when I was ten. I was offered an education and a job as compensation so that I’d keep quiet about it.” The words come flooding out before I even realize it.
Heat flashes on my face, but I’m not sorry for what I said. It’s the truth, and she knows it. She just sits there glaring at me before she finally speaks.
“That’s a wild conspiracy theory you’ve developed.” She pauses for a moment as if I’m going to agree with her. When I don’t respond she lets out a breath. “You’re my best nurse, so I will warn you, that kind of talk is not going to serve you in the future. Now go, before you say something else you’ll regret.”
I nod and leave, but she knows she’s lying. She’s been in this hospital long enough to know all the dirty details of what goes on in these walls. But being who I am, and considering my position in society, what are my options? My anger turns to hopelessness as I make my way back to the emergency room. I want to get lost in one of the things that always makes me feel better—helping others and making them whole. I haven’t felt whole in over a decade. Maybe I can’t have it, but I can try to give it to others. At least on the outside.
