Chapter 14 Piquory Treatment Center
PIQUORY TREATMENT CENTER
The carriage ride is a blur. Hours ago, when I arrived at the breakfast table, it was clear something was wrong.
There wasn’t any food set out, and yet all three of the boys and Dio were standing in the back corner of the room.
Their words were too quiet for me to make them out.
They were so distracted they didn’t seem to notice I was there until I said something.
When I asked about breakfast, they all turned to me, their faces like different pieces in the same puzzle. In this case, one that pictured dismay.
Well, that is, other than Dio, who just had a self-satisfied expression on his face.
I froze for a moment, but then offered to get myself something to eat and began to make my way to the kitchen, carefully ignoring the feelings in my stomach that were clearly not hunger.
As I turned to leave, however, Fem told me to stop and sit. I hesitated, partway out of the room, before I was able to make my feet listen to orders and take me back to a chair at the table.
When I sat down and the boys began talking, though, I hoped I was still in some dream. Although this dream was clearly a nightmare.
Dio and Fem led the conversation and shared with me that they had located a place for me to move to that would “help [me] recover from [my] addiction.”
Even as I tried to ask what that meant, Dio became visibly frustrated and interrupted me.
I finally stopped trying. Clearly, whatever this thing is, it's common enough that everyone but me knows what it is.
Then they told me that the carriage was waiting outside and they would go with me to gather my things before I left.
While I put on my shoes, they were already packing clothes and things in a bag. I was too numb by that point to say anything else.
Pulling myself out of the memory of this morning, I turn and rest my forehead against the cool glass of the window in the carriage.
There are two people with me. One who introduced herself as Ethel.
Another man whose name I don’t remember shared that he is a healer at the “Piquory Treatment Center.”
Ethel has acted with kindness, but her words of comfort don’t reach her eyes, and other than occasionally glancing at me and looking up and down my body, the healer doesn’t say anything.
He also regularly stares at my pink hair until I want to scream at him that I also don’t know what to do about it.
I have just one bag with some clothes and one book I had previously left on the table beside my bed. I think Lent packed it for me because the clothes are thrown together chaotically, but the book speaks of someone kind who loves to read.
At this moment, it feels as though the only hope I possess is that the other books remain hidden in my room. Something in my head still urges me to review the knowledge in those books, and right now it feels like the only thing I have to hold onto.
Eventually, the carriage comes to a stop in front of one of the generic-looking buildings. The healer exits, and then Ethel ushers me out while the healer watches. I hear him speaking quietly with Ethel behind me before they both catch up.
Ethel and the healer guide me through an entrance area where a woman sits at a desk. After telling her my name, she does something with a terminal in front of her. Eventually, she hands the healer some paperwork.
“Already an order, is this right?” the healer asks as he reads over the piece of paperwork.
“That’s what’s documented,” the woman behind the desk says with a shrug.
“Then I guess that’s what we do,” the healer says hesitantly as he takes the paperwork back. He glances at me briefly and then walks forward past the desk. Ethel presses on my shoulder to get me to follow.
The two of them guide me through a couple of hallways into a small room. There is a cot along the back and a small table with some drawers in the front corner. Ethel is holding my bag of items, and I note that she doesn’t offer it to me.
The healer hands me a folded pile of clothing and says, “Change into this. I’ll be back shortly.”
They leave before I can ask for my things.
I close my eyes and try to stop the tears that still fall, but it’s a useless endeavor.
Instead, I do the only thing I can think of and follow the healer’s orders, stripping out of my clothes and changing into the items he gave me.
It turns out to be a shapeless, grey, short-sleeved top and loose pants with a tie at the waist in the same color.
In the absence of anything else to do, I fold my clothes neatly and then sit back on the cot with my hands folded in my lap.
When I look at my hands, I can’t help but remember wielding the sword and the angel’s blood dripping onto the street in front of me.
Then the door opens, pulling me from the memory as the healer walks into the room. He sets something down on the small table. As he does so, he says, “Good, at least you follow orders.”
I look up at him, still trying to understand the circumstances I find myself in. He collects my items of clothing and puts them into a small bag.
“If you work hard, you will get these back at the end,” he says.
Then he sets the bag on the ground and picks up the items he set on the table and holds them out to me.
They turn out to be a cup of water and a small, shallow dish with several pills on it.
The pills are different shapes and colors, and I find myself staring at them without moving.
Belatedly, I realize he’s speaking to me.
“Take the pills and swallow them,” he says.
The silence presses on as I continue to stare at the pills in the dish.
“Are you able to understand me?” He looks at me harder and takes a step closer to me.
I halt him by finally making myself take the pills, deposit them in my mouth, and swallow them with the cup of water.
One pill sticks in my throat, and I swallow harder.
He remains where he is, watching me until I manage to swallow it.
Then he turns and walks through the door.
When it closes behind him, I lie back on the bed, my knees bent and feet resting on the mattress.
With nothing else to do, I look at the ceiling.
Slowly, the room begins to spin, and I feel as though there is movement at the edges of my vision.
I eventually comprehend that it must be the pills.
At least the tears stop, and the ugly feeling in my stomach goes away.
As the room spins, I find it’s easier with my eyes closed, and with my body now relaxed, I fall into a restless but dreamless sleep.
When I wake, I’m not sure if I’m in a dream or not, as everything has a dreamlike quality. My ears ring, my vision is cloudy, and everything seems to move on its own.
The door opens, and I clench my eyes shut to keep from getting dizzy. I hear a voice but can’t understand what they’re saying. The noise of the voice stops, but there’s a hand wrapped around my arm pulling me up and dragging me out of the room.
It’s purely instinct that allows me to remain on my feet as the hand pulls me down a narrow space and into a larger open area.
The larger room spinning undoes whatever control I have over my stomach, and I fall to my knees and vomit.
The hand releases me, and I somehow identify disgust coming from whoever it belonged to.
I’m pulled up by my arm as soon as I stop vomiting and dragged to a soft surface, a couch, I think. I curl up on it, making myself as small as possible. I cling to the fabric covering it as I try not to get flung off the piece of furniture with the spinning of the room.
As time passes, the room continues to spin, but I begin to grow accustomed to it. I still curl in upon myself on the couch, but at times I’m able to open my eyes. The only thing that helps the nausea is keeping my eyes closed.
I note, fuzzily, that there must be others in this space.
Sometimes voices are audible. Sometimes the voices are soft, sometimes loud, but I can rarely understand what they’re saying.
I’m not sure if I’m imagining them or if they are coming from the other figures moving around in the room.
Then again, I’m pretty sure the table in front of the couch moves regularly of its own accord, so anything could be true.
After some additional time passes, more pills are given to me. I try to resist swallowing them this time. I’m not sure how I’ll survive if the room continues spinning and the furniture keeps moving.
Instead of going away, though, two people roughly pin my arms to my sides and shove the pills in my mouth. They pour water down my throat while pinching my nose shut until I swallow. Tears slide down my cheeks.
A body leans against me, a mouth close to my ear. “Keep that up, and we’ll just inject it into you,” the voice says, and I choke down a sob.
More time passes, and I’m led, dragged, to a restroom.
I relieve myself, clinging to the toilet to keep from falling.
Then I’m brought to a room with a man in it who might be the healer who traveled here with me.
He examines my leg and rewraps it in a fresh bandage.
Then I’m taken to a small room that I vaguely recognize.
I’m pushed flat onto a small, fairly soft surface.
The lights go out, and I eventually lapse into a deep and yet restless sleep.
Then it all repeats.
The passage of time ceases to matter.
After some time passes, days, perhaps, or weeks, or even months, the spinning of the room becomes normal. So normal that I can walk on my own without being dragged by the people who work in this place.
After some time, the voices start to make some sense again, or at least I start to understand them.
After some time, they begin leading me to an office with a person behind a desk before I go to my room for the night.
The person behind the desk asks me questions while I sit in silence.
Each time I see them, their questions get louder.
Some part of me that’s buried deep screams at me to keep my mouth shut and not respond.
With nothing else to believe in, I listen to that voice.
More time passes, and I’m sitting on one of the couches in the big room. Two women whose voices I recognize are sitting at the other end of the couch and talking about a ghost they’re acquainted with.
Another voice that doesn't have a body tries to tell me ghosts don’t exist, but that’s ridiculous, so I tell them to be quiet.
Then the women tell me to be quiet or I’ll scare the ghost. I sit on my hands so I’m not tempted to speak again. I certainly don’t want to scare the ghost. I learn from listening to the women that the poor ghost lost its hat, and I get up to help look for it.
My chest hurts as I worry that we might never find the hat, and I rub at the pain with one hand as I look around the room for where it might have been lost. I hear a voice with a body say something to me, but I don’t listen. The hat is more important.
I blink, and then I’m on my knees on the ground near a couch that’s not my couch. I reach under it with my left hand as my right hand tries to rub away the pain in my chest.
Poor ghost, there’s no hat here.
I push myself to my feet and nearly run into a male body ahead of me. I’m looking around still, trying to figure out where the hat might be hiding.
The body moves away from me, the voice attached muttering an apology.
Remember not to speak and scare the ghost, I think to myself.
I look in the other direction, but as I turn my head, my attention is caught by the body I nearly ran into. As it moves away. I see bright wings protruding from its back.
I blink.
I know it means something, but I’m not sure what that could be. Maybe that’s what’s making my chest hurt. Actually, maybe that’s what scared the ghost away.
Poor ghost, I think as I launch myself at the body in front of me.
I collide hard against whoever it is, and we both fall, crashing through a table in the middle of the space.
Purely by instinct, I have a piece of the table in my hand, and I stab at the body.
It tries to roll me over, and I use all my strength and a nimbleness I shouldn’t have in this fuzzy state to keep myself on top. I stab at the face as it watches me.
That will teach him to scare ghosts away.
I feel a sudden pain, and my body freezes up. I look down and think I see a blade in my stomach. I look back towards the face as I attempt to figure out what happened. As the face swims in my vision, I look down again, and there’s no blade.
I blink.
The body forces me onto my back, pins my arms above my head, and the voice attached yells loudly.
“Help me! She’s trying to hurt herself! Maybe trying to kill herself! Help me restrain her!”
Something about the words feels wrong, but maybe it’s just because I’m worried about the ghost.
More bodies surround me, pinning me to the ground. There’s pressure on my stomach and so much pain. I hear a voice screaming that sounds a lot like my own, and then blessedly everything goes dark.