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The beds in the rejuvenation center have sensors. If you’re lucky enough to have a bed, that is. They know when you’re awake. They know your sleep cycles. They know everything.
So it isn’t long before they’re at my door, in my room, gesturing me from the illusion of safety that the bed provides.
“Up and out,” the aide calls. “You know the drill.” I don’t recognize her. Often the aides are men. For the muscle, I presume.
I do as she asks. Sometimes they’re nicer when you comply. Unspoken brownie points.
“Do you know the time?” I ask. I want to know if Matthew is up. I want something to occupy my mind so my body gets through the re
st of it.
She doesn’t answer me—she simply grabs the underside of my forearm and leads me to the door.
I only fully begin to realize the severity of what I’ve done when the aide stops at the familiar door. It isn’t labeled, but I don’t need a sign to know what lies behind it. Shock therapy.
The aide turns to me, and with her eyes, she practically wills me not to cause any trouble. It’s more of a plea than a warning, and I don’t mean to, but I drag my feet through the doorway. It’s pure instinct. She says, “As long as it is day, we must do the works of him who sent me.”
I recognize it as John 9:4. It tells me nothing. It tells me everything.
She leads me through the door. I want to be brave and prideful—I do. But my body is fighting me on that one. It wants to resist. She’s three times my size, and I’m weak anyhow. I could run, but there’s nowhere to go. The center is well prepared for the scenario. So far as I know, no one has ever escaped. Not alive. I’ve heard about the accidental deaths. Here they call them “suicides,” and maybe it’s not a stretch. Most of the time you just want it to end.
I bite my tongue to keep from begging. I can’t show weakness. In the church’s eyes, weakness and guilt go hand in hand. I know this. It’s what keeps me alive.
Understanding what got me here is the same thing that will get me out. They want to know why I failed the mission. They want to teach me a lesson.
Survival is a tricky thing. You have to remember.
It helps to know what to expect, even if you’d prefer not to see it coming. This is what I know: I’ll have pissed myself before this is over. I’ll end up a drooling and incoherent shell of myself. And if I have not passed out by the end, then I’ll know it will most definitely get worse before it gets better.
If it does get better.
Later, when I am carted off to the pool, it’s Matthew I’m thinking of.
I think of the Hot Wheels truck he will never get if I die. So when I’m forced down onto my knees, I don’t fight. I think of the questions he might ask even as a fist knots itself in my hair. I wonder if he’ll remember me, as I am dunked face-first over the side of the pool. Maybe it would be better if he didn’t. Until I think about what they’ll tell him about where I’ve gone. He’ll never really know the truth. I need him to know the truth. Which is why I fight back. There is no choice when you’re drowning. Your body knows what to do, even if your brain knows it’s useless. The body does not give up as easily as the mind.
It’s useless, the flailing. There is no give. I am held under.
I count. This is how I know whether I will live or die. At sixty-two, I am brought up. I am choking. I can’t breathe. No air will ever be enough.
“Did you betray the church?”
No.
Back down into the water I go. My lungs seize. There is no oxygen left inside of me. Blood rushes to my head. I don’t think I can hang on, not when it would be easier to give up.
“Are you telling the truth about the mark?”
I say nothing. If I make him wait, it gives me time to suck in air.
The question is repeated. It’s muffled. The lack of oxygen, probably. I only half hear the words. But I know what they want.
“Are you telling the truth about the mark?”
Yes.
My head is forced underwater. I just want to sleep. I hope Matthew remembers me. I hope Sean doesn’t let him forget.
The air hits my face. Or is it water? I can’t tell.
