Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(64)

“So this time, when the academy sought out new girls,” he says, “we changed our criteria.” He turns to me, leaning against the desk. “You are among the smartest that have ever walked the halls here, did you know that? Not to mention you’re all highly charismatic, even spirited when you want to be. Curious. It added to the well-rounded features we offered our top investors. But these traits are only attributes if they’re controlled.”

I realize I can’t move my legs at all anymore. I can’t move my arms.

“What’s worrying me, Mena,” Anton says, “is how to know if we’ve lost control. There is such a fine line now. You certainly make my job harder.” He laughs softly like we’re in on this together.

And maybe we are. Maybe he’s told me this every time I’ve had this therapy. I try to grip the handles of the chair, wanting to get up. Wanting to run for it, even if I can’t get far.

I can no longer speak.

Anton watches me for a long second, and then he nods. “It’s the paralytic in the juice,” he says simply. “We grow it in the greenhouse. I know it’s uncomfortable.” He taps his temple. “Probably all scratchy in there. Frantic. It’ll be okay,” he adds, coming over. When he moves behind my chair, I get a view of the instruments on the desk. Fresh tears fall onto my cheeks.

There are several tools, but the most menacing is the long, sharp metal needle. No, not a needle. It’s more like an ice pick.

My chair moves suddenly, and I would yelp at the startle if I could talk. Anton reclines the chair farther until I’m lying back and a light above me is shining into my eyes. My feet hang off the edge of the chair, my shoe loose. I realize with absolute terror that although I can’t move, I can feel everything. I can feel when Anton brushes my hair back from my neck. I can feel his warm fingers on my cheek and then above my brow as he presses down painfully, circling my left eye.

But I can’t even tell him it hurts. I can’t tell him anything.

“So now it comes down to guesswork,” he say, admitting a shortcoming. “There’s only so much we can do through the medication, no matter how specialized.”

I’m not even sure that he’s really talking to me anymore. He’s just speaking out loud. “We’ve all made mistakes,” he adds, and pauses to smile down at me. “We’re only human, right?”

He leaves my side, and I’m left to stare up at the bright light angled above my head. I need help—help that isn’t coming. Help that has never saved me before. How many times? How many times have I been through this?

Anton appears again, and this time he’s wearing different glasses, ones with an extra lens magnifying his eyes. He stands near the top of my head, his image upside down as he leans above me. He smiles and holds up the sharp, ice-pick instrument.

“Now,” he says calmly. “I’m going to insert this behind your eye, Mena,” he says.

I scream internally and thrash around. I fight for my life. But here, in this chair, my body is motionless.

“Then I’m going to ask you a series of questions,” Anton continues, reaching down with gloved fingers to widen my left eye, pulling the lid open more. “Based on the answers you think, I’ll make subtle adjustments.” He brings the pick to my eye, stopping momentarily to look at me again. “It’ll only hurt for a moment,” he adds with a small note of sympathy to his voice.

Please, no. Please!

And then there is a cold touch on my inner eyelid, followed by the most excruciating pressure I could ever imagine. It is a sledgehammer to my head, a knife to my bone. But behind the pain is a discomfort I can’t describe, an unnaturalness to the way the pick manipulates my tissue. I lose sight in my left eye, and in my right, I see Anton’s blue gloves wrapped around the metal instrument, twisting it. He takes out some small wires and feeds them into the opening he’s made. I have no idea what they’re connected to.

The pain is impossible to bear. And it hurts so much that I wish I was dead. The second I think that, Anton’s hand pauses, the pick still jammed behind my eye. The wires cold where they rest on my skin.

“Interesting,” he says. “You shouldn’t have thoughts like that, Mena. Self-preservation.”

He waits a beat, and I yell for him to stop, convinced he can hear me somehow. But rather than stopping, his other hand comes into focus holding a small hammer.

“Personally,” he says offhandedly, “I think this is a result of your attachment to the other girls. You share information with each other, and that can spread discontent if not managed. I’ve recommended separation, but Mr. Petrov believed it would affect you socially. There is only so much our medication can accomplish. I can’t prevent all connections.” He sighs and leans in to look closer at my left eye.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he says as if I’m being impatient. “Just hold on another minute.” He gently taps the hammer on the end of the pick.

Clink. On the inside, I scream at the explosion of pain. But on the outside, all of my muscles tense at once, hit with a shock of electricity.

Clink. Convulsion, bones on fire. I’m begging Anton to stop. Stop the agony. Stop—

Clink. And suddenly, miraculously, all of my pain disappears at once. The change is so sudden, so immediate, that at first I can’t quite understand. It takes a moment before I realize that I can’t feel anything at all. Not my body. Not the pick. Not the wires. My thoughts float free. It’s both euphoric and terrifying.