Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(63)

My eyelids are too heavy, and they slide shut. I force them open, hoping someone will come in and stop this. Stop him. But no one’s coming. The other girls don’t know how much danger we’re really in.

Anton straightens, reaching to brush my hair behind my ears lovingly. He smiles once, and then goes to his desk and picks up the walkie-talkie.

“Bose,” he says, looking over at me. “I need you to prepare the room for impulse control therapy.”

? ? ?

The small pendulum on the desk swings back and forth, making a rhythmic ticking that’s supposed to set me at ease. Instead, it’s more like a dripping faucet that I try to forget is there. Next to it is a metal tray with a white towel covering its contents and a full glass of green juice.

The impulse control room is windowless with deep red walls and concrete floors, somewhere in the basement of the academy, I’m assuming. The only furniture is a metal desk, a rolling stool, and the reclining chair that I’m currently occupying. I stir awake, the sedatives wearing off.

Restraints hang from the metal arms of the chair, although I’m weak enough that they won’t be needed. I can barely lift my arms. Anton rolls his stool over to sit in front of me.

I swallow hard, the smell of bleach stinging my nose. I don’t remember what happens in this room. That’s the scary part—that something can be completely forgotten, yet at the same time emotionally devastating.

Last time, I left impulse control therapy with an aching head and a sore heart that didn’t go away for several days. And I don’t even know why. And then, of course, there may have been other times that I don’t remember at all.

Anton holds up the glass of green juice and tells me to take a sip.

“This procedure can be uncomfortable,” he explains. “This will help calm you.”

“That’s what you said about the pill.”

He winces. “Yes, sorry. I was a bit dishonest there. But for the record, it’s easier to get you ready for therapy when you’re unconscious. This”—he motions to the juice—“will make you more . . . pliable.”

He brings the glass to my lips, and I lift my hands to knock it away. My limbs are heavy, clumsy, and he easily brushes them aside. Anton lifts the juice, splashing it over my top lip, and nods for me to go ahead.

I take a sip, hating the taste. Anton smiles and sets it back on the desk before turning to me again.

“Why did you misbehave in class?” he asks simply.

“Because I wanted to check on Lennon Rose,” I say, although it’s not the entire story. But I don’t want him to know about our plan. In fact, I push that memory away, as if I can erase it myself. He can’t know the other girls were involved.

“Why did you misbehave in class?” Anton repeats, louder. He rolls closer and places his hand on my knee, about to say something. His palm is warm on my skin and I flinch. He pauses.

“What did you just think?” he asks, glancing down at his hand before removing it.

“That I wanted to push your hand away,” I admit, lifting my eyes to his. He smiles.

“Good,” he replies. “Now you’re being honest.”

There is a sense of familiarity then, like this is choreography that we’ve practiced but forgotten. Somewhere, I still remember the routine.

“You don’t like when we touch you, do you, Mena?” he asks, standing and walking to his desk.

“No,” I say.

“But you allow it. Why?”

The question hits me hard, a sense of guilt mixed with disgust. I feel blamed and wronged at the same time.

“Because it feels rude to push you away,” I admit. “And I worry . . . I worry it’ll make you angry. Upset with me.”

“Wonderful,” he says proudly. “That’s an excellent deduction on your part. Learning what social norms are expected.”

“If you know I don’t like it,” I say, “then why do you continue to touch me?” My question seems to surprise him.

“We’re showing our affection,” he says, puzzled. “It’s a compliment. You’re a beautiful girl, Philomena. You should be gracious.”

I don’t like his answer, and he must read it in my expression because he sighs and picks up the glass of juice, walking it back over to me. He tells me to take another drink. I refuse, but he brings the glass to my lips anyway, tipping it so the liquid is against my mouth.

Green juice slides down my chin as Anton keeps the glass pressed to my lips. Then he pinches my nose closed, preventing me from breathing. I try to push him away, but I’m not strong enough. I’m weaker than ever.

My eyes well up, and finally I open my mouth and gulp. He lets me breathe, holding the glass until I finish the drink. Tears are wet on my cheeks as sickness swirls in my stomach.

Anton sets the empty glass on the desk and pulls a handkerchief from his coat to wipe my face. He begins talking again like nothing is wrong. But I can’t stop crying, feeling violated. Terrified.

“It’s not just you,” Anton says, removing the white towel from the metal tray. His body blocks it so that I can’t see what instruments are there.

“Your entire group is like this,” he continues. “The first girls rarely had problems with impulse control. They were very obedient. But at the same time . . .” He presses his lips together as if searching for the correct word. “Very bland,” he finishes. “We graduated few because of this.”