Balance - Book 2 by Marc Dickason
CHAPTER 3
Memories of Linda from when last I had seen her were common night time visitors. But looking at her as she was now, angry brown bruises on pale arms where tubes penetrated skin, I would have done anything to trade one version for the other.
“Oh God, Linda,” I muttered to myself, “I’m so sorry.”
Footsteps approached and Gibson appeared beside me.
“You knew her?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yes. Linda. She used to be a waitress. Very passionate girl.”
“I see,” he said sombrely, shaking his head, “Terrible tragedy. Poor girl can hardly be out of her teens.”
“What will happen to her, sir? When will she be rehabilitated?”
He looked up at me and blinked, expression saying I had inconsiderately taken us into dark waters.
“Clarence,” he began hesitantly, “How much do you know about the rehabilitation process?”
“Not that much, sir. I confess I haven’t had time to look into it.”
“You understand that people who are capable of doing what you do are rare? At least to the extent required for real rehabilitation.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And of those who can do it, few choose to specialise in Manipulation and Influence. This environment,” he said, gesturing around the hall, “Is not particularly encouraging.”
“I understand that, sir. What are you saying, exactly?”
“Well, everything that can be done for her will, of that there is no question. But please have realistic expectations…”
My heart sank. “What kind of expectations, sir?”
“Full rehabilitation is rare once a person finds themselves here, Clarence. I’m sorry.”
“How rare?”
He sighed and cleared his throat. “You know, up until recently these people would have been euthanized. As recently as just fifty years ago in some parts of the world. We’ve moved beyond that cruelty, thankfully, but you have to understand that the number of patients is daunting. Frankly, Clarence, there are simply not enough specialists to go around. And for those that are available spending more then a certain amount of time on any patient is just not fair to the others. You understand?”
“Sir, how rare?”
“On a good month we make notable progress on perhaps three to five percent of our patients. Sometimes more, sometimes less. It’s not a situation anyone likes, Clarence, but understand that this is one institute out of six in the city, and some have more patients then this. More are coming in all the time.” He paused and added sincerely. “I am sorry for your friend, Clarence, I truly am.”
“Three to five percent…?”
My gaze turned down to Linda, heart attempting to escape via throat. I found myself desperately wanting to brush aside a strand of blonde hair that clung to her face. And it was then, as I reached for the strand and my fingers touched cold skin, that I realised there was a presence in the hall; a weight in the atmosphere, a subtle undertone in the air, so dim it was almost imperceptible but persistent none the less. It was as if the hall were alive around me.
I blinked and looked around trying to spot indication others were sensing the bizarre sensation. But business proceeded as usual.
“Isn’t there something more that can be done?” I asked Gibson.
“Her turn will come. But I’m afraid it may be some time.”
“What happens to patients who are not rehabilitated, sir?”
He glanced at a clipboard on the foot of Linda’s bed. “She is the government’s responsibility now, Clarence. No family information is listed. If rehabilitation fails she will live out her years in a Retirement Centre. Sometimes even those with family land up in such places. I’m afraid not everyone can shoulder such a financial burden.”
I sighed, attempted to shake the presence from my brain. But it remained. And grew stronger.
“She doesn’t have family?”
“None are listed.” He squinted at me. “Are you alright, Clarence?”
“I’m fine I just…I feel something, sir. What is that?”
“Feel what?”
“That… that presence.”
“A presence?” His expression inched towards concern then morphed into sympathy. “Alright, come with me. Let’s take a walk.”
He took my arm and ushered me towards the doors. The presence faded as we exited.
“It gets to everyone once in a while,” he said softly, “Are you alright? Perhaps you should visit the Mental Wellness Centre?”
“I’m okay, sir. I’m not sure… I just felt very strange for a moment.”
“Its okay, Clarence. It is a notoriously high stress situation, that hall. And stress can manifest in funny ways sometimes.” He chuckled reassuringly. “I’ve seen it happen to veterans at the least expected times, seen them say and do the silliest things. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
I nodded. We stood in silence. When he spoke again his voice had a faint tone of desperation.
“You may have the opportunity to rehabilitate your friend yourself some day. If you specialise and achieve Senior Enforcer status. I’d even help you put in a request personally.” A hollow smile. “See? A silver lining in every scenario.”
With that he turned and departed.
For a long time I stood and stared at the white tiled floor, thinking. It had been a while since I had doubted my own mental stability, and bless the world in all its ironically lovable wit for taking a poke at me not hours after my Active Status had been granted.
“Stress,” I told myself, “Stress. It can manifest in funny ways.”
Before turning and heading up the corridor I found myself wondering about one other thing; was there perhaps information on where my mother might be, hidden inside Linda’s little blonde head?
Memories of Linda from when last I had seen her were common night time visitors. But looking at her as she was now, angry brown bruises on pale arms where tubes penetrated skin, I would have done anything to trade one version for the other.
“Oh God, Linda,” I muttered to myself, “I’m so sorry.”
Footsteps approached and Gibson appeared beside me.
“You knew her?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yes. Linda. She used to be a waitress. Very passionate girl.”
“I see,” he said sombrely, shaking his head, “Terrible tragedy. Poor girl can hardly be out of her teens.”
“What will happen to her, sir? When will she be rehabilitated?”
He looked up at me and blinked, expression saying I had inconsiderately taken us into dark waters.
“Clarence,” he began hesitantly, “How much do you know about the rehabilitation process?”
“Not that much, sir. I confess I haven’t had time to look into it.”
“You understand that people who are capable of doing what you do are rare? At least to the extent required for real rehabilitation.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And of those who can do it, few choose to specialise in Manipulation and Influence. This environment,” he said, gesturing around the hall, “Is not particularly encouraging.”
“I understand that, sir. What are you saying, exactly?”
“Well, everything that can be done for her will, of that there is no question. But please have realistic expectations…”
My heart sank. “What kind of expectations, sir?”
“Full rehabilitation is rare once a person finds themselves here, Clarence. I’m sorry.”
“How rare?”
He sighed and cleared his throat. “You know, up until recently these people would have been euthanized. As recently as just fifty years ago in some parts of the world. We’ve moved beyond that cruelty, thankfully, but you have to understand that the number of patients is daunting. Frankly, Clarence, there are simply not enough specialists to go around. And for those that are available spending more then a certain amount of time on any patient is just not fair to the others. You understand?”
“Sir, how rare?”
“On a good month we make notable progress on perhaps three to five percent of our patients. Sometimes more, sometimes less. It’s not a situation anyone likes, Clarence, but understand that this is one institute out of six in the city, and some have more patients then this. More are coming in all the time.” He paused and added sincerely. “I am sorry for your friend, Clarence, I truly am.”
“Three to five percent…?”
My gaze turned down to Linda, heart attempting to escape via throat. I found myself desperately wanting to brush aside a strand of blonde hair that clung to her face. And it was then, as I reached for the strand and my fingers touched cold skin, that I realised there was a presence in the hall; a weight in the atmosphere, a subtle undertone in the air, so dim it was almost imperceptible but persistent none the less. It was as if the hall were alive around me.
I blinked and looked around trying to spot indication others were sensing the bizarre sensation. But business proceeded as usual.
“Isn’t there something more that can be done?” I asked Gibson.
“Her turn will come. But I’m afraid it may be some time.”
“What happens to patients who are not rehabilitated, sir?”
He glanced at a clipboard on the foot of Linda’s bed. “She is the government’s responsibility now, Clarence. No family information is listed. If rehabilitation fails she will live out her years in a Retirement Centre. Sometimes even those with family land up in such places. I’m afraid not everyone can shoulder such a financial burden.”
I sighed, attempted to shake the presence from my brain. But it remained. And grew stronger.
“She doesn’t have family?”
“None are listed.” He squinted at me. “Are you alright, Clarence?”
“I’m fine I just…I feel something, sir. What is that?”
“Feel what?”
“That… that presence.”
“A presence?” His expression inched towards concern then morphed into sympathy. “Alright, come with me. Let’s take a walk.”
He took my arm and ushered me towards the doors. The presence faded as we exited.
“It gets to everyone once in a while,” he said softly, “Are you alright? Perhaps you should visit the Mental Wellness Centre?”
“I’m okay, sir. I’m not sure… I just felt very strange for a moment.”
“Its okay, Clarence. It is a notoriously high stress situation, that hall. And stress can manifest in funny ways sometimes.” He chuckled reassuringly. “I’ve seen it happen to veterans at the least expected times, seen them say and do the silliest things. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
I nodded. We stood in silence. When he spoke again his voice had a faint tone of desperation.
“You may have the opportunity to rehabilitate your friend yourself some day. If you specialise and achieve Senior Enforcer status. I’d even help you put in a request personally.” A hollow smile. “See? A silver lining in every scenario.”
With that he turned and departed.
For a long time I stood and stared at the white tiled floor, thinking. It had been a while since I had doubted my own mental stability, and bless the world in all its ironically lovable wit for taking a poke at me not hours after my Active Status had been granted.
“Stress,” I told myself, “Stress. It can manifest in funny ways.”
Before turning and heading up the corridor I found myself wondering about one other thing; was there perhaps information on where my mother might be, hidden inside Linda’s little blonde head?