The Institute

by Kayla Howarth

CHAPTER TEN

  I don’t even remember falling asleep, but Tate’s white noise tip helped a lot. I’m awoken by the clanging of my cell door opening and two men coming in, grabbing me, and dragging me out of bed. I’m worried about where I’m going. Tate said he was put through weeks of interrogations and beatings, and my face is still aching from my last “questioning.” How long was I asleep for?

  I’m taken to the same room as yesterday. At least, I think it’s the same room, and I think it was yesterday—although if I was only eating breakfast before I went to sleep, maybe it’s only the afternoon. Maybe I should stop trying to work out what time it is.

  There’s no table or chairs in here today, just a small square, empty room.

  “When you’re ready to talk, just hit the button,” a voice commands.

  I’m definitely the only one in here. Maybe it’s my ability, the one Tate has shown me I have. But then I notice there’s a speaker hanging in the corner, and some sort of camera. Searching for the button, I can’t see it.

  “It’s on the wall near the door,” the voice says. Obviously, that camera is taking video of me.

  Cautiously, I walk over to the door where there’s a remote control sitting in a stand that’s mounted to the wall. The remote has a single red button in the middle of it.

  Taking it out of its stand, I palm it in my right hand. Should I tell them what I can do now that I know what it is? I want to hit the button, I do. I definitely don’t want to endure more of yesterday, but one thing has me questioning whether I should or not. What would they make me do if they found out about me?

  I pace around the room, thinking. Could I really do what Drew does? Could I really be that heartless? Fooling people into thinking that I cared for them, just to betray them and ruin their lives forever?

  The remote falls as I throw it on the ground, defiant. Tate’s right, they would exploit this ability even more than Drew’s. I don’t want to be responsible for interrogating people and knowingly hurting them if they give me the wrong answers.

  A bright white light, and I mean really bright, comes on overhead. It’s brighter than the sun at noon. I put my arm up to cover my eyes. The illumination creates an instant headache behind my eyes.

  So this is what they’re going to do to get me to talk. Okay, it’s time to really focus on what I want, and right now, that’s to keep my ability a secret.

  I don’t know how long it has been since the light was turned on, but I’m sitting, huddled in the corner, facing the wall with my hands resting on my knees, and my face buried into my hands. My eyes are closed, but the light is so bright, all I’m seeing is the colour red. I put pressure on my eyes to try to make it darker, and it helps a little, but there’s still that annoying, tingling feeling in between my eyes—the feeling you get right before a migraine starts.

  Everything goes black. The light is off—either that or I’ve gone blind. I’m so relieved I let out a happy sigh, and that’s when the light comes back on.

  I swear it’s even brighter than before, and this time it’s accompanied with the sound of an alarm bell. It’s a constant ringing sound, and I no longer have to wonder when that migraine will hit because it’s here.

  Normally when I get a migraine, I need a dark room and pressure applied to my eyes, but with the ringing in my ears and the light, there’s no chance of that happening. Sitting back in my corner, I block my ears with my hands and my eyes with my knees and rock back and forth. This isn’t helping at all, but it’s distracting so I continue to do it.

  When the light and sound stops this time, I know better than to sigh with relief. I get up and stretch, taking every opportunity they give me to try to stay as strong as I can. My back is sore from being curved, and my hands are tense from tightly gripping my ears.

  When the light and sound starts back again, I almost want to hit the button. I want to give in. But this time, the light just isn’t on, and the alarm just isn’t ringing, they’re both pulsing intermittently. Even if I wanted to find the button, I couldn’t; I threw it on the ground earlier, and I have no idea where it is. I can’t see with the flashing light. I know my previous tactics won’t get me through this time.

  If I do ever get back to Tate, I must ask him how he was able to endure weeks of this kind of thing. Taking my shirt off, I’m thankful that I kept my bra on that I was wearing when I was arrested … although this just makes me realise how long it’s been since I’ve had a shower or had a fresh pair of underwear. That thought alone is making me want to find that button.

  I rip the shirt to give me a longer piece of material to use, rolling it up like a bandana and tying it around my head tight to cover my eyes and ears. It in no way helps on its own, but when I apply the added pressure of my hands and my knees again, I almost find peace … it’s quiet and dark enough for me to tolerate anyway.

  I finally find real peace when the noise and light finally switch off completely and I’m being escorted back to my cell by two guards. There’s a high-pitched ringing still in my ears, but it’s nothing compared to what I experienced in that room. I kind of wish I had a spare change of clothes. I’m about to be paraded in just a bra and my blue pyjama pants past rows of cells full of people.

  “You can go on break if you want, I’ve got this,” the woman guard says.

  The second guard doesn’t even hesitate. He turns and starts walking away from us. We get to a door, which does not lead us back to the cells but to a shower block.

  “You missed your allotted shower time this morning. Normally we aren’t allowed to let you shower when it isn’t your time, but I can’t sit by and let them treat people that way … not if I can do something about it anyway.”

  I give her an appreciative smile.

  “But you’ll need to hurry up, I can only give you a couple of minutes.”

  I shower as quickly as I can, struggling not to stay under the running water for hours. When I get out, the guard hands me a towel and new pyjamas. I don’t even feel self-conscious being naked in front of a stranger—I just needed a shower that badly. I’d probably feel different if it was a male guard though.

  “Thank you,” I say, “and not just for the clothes.” I’m really thanking her for everything she just did for me. I hope she doesn’t get into trouble.

  Arriving back at my cell, I immediately lie down on my bed, exhausted from the events of today. The loud chatter starts in my ears again. For a moment I thought the torture today had drowned their noise out, but no, I have a high-pitched ringing and crowd noise from all the thoughts I can hear in my head. I don’t think I’m going to get much peace in here.

  I know there are other things I should be thinking and worrying about right now, like when my next interrogation will begin, but all I can think about is Dad. He warned me to stay away from Drew. He knew it wasn’t a good idea, and I thought I knew better. I don’t see how he will ever forgive me, not that he will ever have the chance to though anyway.

  Has he told Aunt Kenna what I did? Has she been told about Shilah and me? I can’t imagine what she and Dad are feeling right now, but then again, I guess I’m experiencing it myself.

  I don’t know where Shilah is, I don’t know what happened to Dad when I was arrested, my family has been ripped away from me, and I don’t know if they’re okay, and they don’t know if I’m okay. I want to try to rest, but I can’t get Dad and Aunt Kenna’s faces out of my head.

  The buzzing of my cell door make me realise I’ve really wasted my down time. I could’ve been sleeping, stretching, doing something to get me ready for what’s coming, and now it’s too late. Guards, new ones this time, are at my cell door again.

  I guess I have an answer for when my next round of torture will start.

  The guards escort me out, and I’m expecting to be taken to the same room I was just in, but we only walk through one of the buzzing doors before I’m taken into a new room. This one is larger and more terrifying. There’s a gurney in the middle of
the room and what looks like medical equipment around it. I have no idea what is in store for me, but by the look of it, it can’t be good.

  The guards walk me over and tell me to lie down. I want to scream and fight, but I know it won’t get me anywhere and could even make things worse. I don’t comply quickly enough for them though, and I’m pushed onto the makeshift bed and restrained.

  Two other people in white scrubs come over to me, attaching wires and plugs, to hook me up to the terrifying device. As one of them is attaching some sort of band around my arm, she looks me right in the eye. She can see the terrified look on my face just as clearly as I can see the affliction in hers. She doesn’t look excited or happy about what they’re doing to me like the others do. I begin to wonder how she ended up working here, doing what she does. If what Tate said is true, does that mean she’s Defective too? The band on my arm starts to tighten until it becomes almost painful. The two of them walk over to a booth inside the room; it’s tiny, and I can see through the window that there are desks and computers in there.

  The door clicks open and loud footsteps head towards me. Lifting my head slightly—I can’t manage to lift it far as I’m strapped onto this bed—I see the footsteps belong to Monobrow man.

  “So are you ready to tell us yet?” he asks.

  I stay quiet. There’s a flash of disappointment in my interrogator’s face as he looks over to the little room with the two people inside it. He nods, and without warning, my whole body forcefully convulses as a surge of electricity goes through it. It’s over with quite quickly before I have a real chance to process or respond. What it was, I’m not sure—what was it meant to achieve?

  “I think it’s time you give us some answers,” he says.

  I want to scream, I want to yell at them to stop, but I know it will be frivolous. Is it really so much to ask that I’m just told what’s going on? All I seem to know is that they know I’m Defective and are trying to get me to tell them what they want to hear.

  Where will I go if I tell them what happened with Tate? What will happen to him? I’m trying with all of my effort to listen in on the people in this room, but I can’t. I hear nothing. I couldn’t hear any of my guard’s thoughts earlier today, either. The voices and constant chattering left me this morning too but returned when I got back to my cell. Is fear stopping me from hearing them?

  How many more days of this will I have to endure until they give up on me as they have with everyone else down in those cells? I have so many questions, and no one to answer them, except maybe Tate. If I make it through today and get back to my cell, I can talk to him again. Tate seems like he genuinely wants to help me. I know it’s not much to cling to, but it’s all I have.

  I’ve obviously been too quiet for their liking, and the same electrical current runs through me again. It’s a little stronger and for a little bit longer than the first one. I don’t need to have Shilah’s ability to know where this is headed. I don’t know what this is supposed to achieve, but it’s definitely making me more and more pissed off.

  Aunt Kenna’s words come back to me briefly before I think of Shilah. Is he enduring something similar? Is he strong enough to handle this?

  “Is there anything you would like to tell me yet?” he asks when the current stops running through my body.

  “No.”

  The pain when they hit the button this time is a lot more intense, and it feels like they’re burning me from the inside out. I don’t know how much longer I can put up with it without saying something about Tate so I can get a break. I tell myself I have to endure it. No benefit will come of me telling them anything.

  My interrogator asks more questions of me, a lot of questions like “Have you ever shown symptoms?” and “Have you suffered any physical or emotional trauma as a child?”

  I could tell them about my mother, but what’s the point? They’re still going to do whatever they want to me. I have to stay strong. With each unsatisfactory answer, which just happens to be all of them, electricity surges through me more intensely and for a longer period with each jolt I’m given. My muscles feel frozen from constantly contracting. Each time I’m shocked with the machine, it takes longer and longer for them to loosen back up.

  How long have they been at this for? He asks another question, but I’m so out of it, it barely sounds audible to me.

  I’m dizzy, my thoughts hazy. My lack of answer causes another shock to run through my body, and it’s so painful, so intense, I can feel myself slipping away. My vision blurs and black patches fill my eyes.