“There’s also simulated drowning, electroconvulsive therapy, chemically induced seizures, and as a last resort to the most uncontrollable of patients… Lobotomies are a surgical procedure on the brain that removes elements that corrupt their behavioral traits.” She sighs. Taps her fingers together in thought.
A quick glance at her watch. “Now that we’ve gone over some of the basics… I need to introduce you to some of the treatments in person. To most, they are extremely difficult to watch and even harder to inflict upon another human. This is merely to observe your reaction to ensure you have the stomach for this.”
A sharp, ice-cold chill runs up the back of my neck to my scalp, prickling over my hair follicles like the bristles of a hairbrush.
We don’t bother to tour the dining hall or the patient’s dormitories. She’s going to test me. I can imagine this is the part where most candidates fail the interview. Fortunately for me, Scarlett would explain to me in vivid detail what went on in these treatments. The first time I heard about the scalding bath therapy, I had violent nightmares about it for days and trembled uncontrollably while she told me exactly what she saw. After a couple of years being her trusted late-night companion to talk to, I grew a thick layer of skin that could fend off the sickly visions painted so delicately by Scarlett’s stories.
I walk directly behind her to the middle hallway. She has a pep in her step, gliding over the tile as if there are tiny wheels on the bottoms of her shoes. The ceilings are ominously high, with rib vault arches and brass chandeliers hanging low overhead. The doors match the dark copper color of the lights, and they all have small windows at eye level. In the first door, I see small white tiles and five water jets coming from each wall. Inside is a naked woman being tossed around by the intense pressure of the cold water. Her screams are hoarse and choppy as her mouth fills with water.
Hydrotherapy.
In the second room to my left, an older man is strapped down to a table. His arms, head, and legs are bound with two white bulbs connected to his temples, and his body is convulsing and thrashing about. I don’t hear any sound coming from this room.Electroconvulsive therapy.
As we approach the third room, Suseas stops walking. “Simulated drowning. This treatment is particularly hard for newcomers to watch. Our basic instinct is to breathe to stay alive. Depriving someone of that makes it easy to curb their indecent tendencies and train their minds to obey behavioral correction. However, it is a long and exhausting process on both ends. We hold the patient’s head underwater for thirty seconds. Even though a human in good health can hold their breath on average of around two minutes, the panic and adrenaline rush causes a greater need of oxygen, and the fear of drowning is painfulenough to bring about a very effective treatment.” Suseas touches the doorknob with the tips of her fingers, caressing it like the room itself holds a special place in her heart.
“Indeed, that does sound effective.” I hold my hands together to keep them from shaking.
“Take a deep breath. This might appear shocking at first, but after a few trials, we get used to it and eventually desensitize to it entirely.”
I do as she says and suck in a deep, choppy breath. She pulls a lever attached to the door and twists it clockwise until the door clicks and a burst of cold air comes out.
“The room temperature is set to fifty-three degrees Fahrenheit. It creates an even more uncomfortable setting for the wet patient,” she notes as we walk through the door. The chilled air sweeps over my face, identifying this room as the culprit for the stench of mildew and wet towels, also underlined with a concoction of saliva and sweat.
There is a bathtub in the center of the room. An older man crouches down on his knees, and Meridei sits on a stool with a clipboard in hand. The man’s white jumpsuit is stuck to his light-brown skin, saturated with cold water, dripping down the back of his neck and quivering arms. Metal clamps are connected to the long ends of the tub and locked around his neck, secured over the back of his head.
“May I remind you, Chekiss… You decide when this stops. I can imagine this is quite unbearable, with your sore lungs inflamed and the muscles in your neck tender to the touch. You can end the session right now with a single word.” The sneering, black-haired woman called Meridei rests her onyx eyes on him, unamused, unfazed by what she is about to do to him. I try to keep my breathing steady, focusing on making my inhalations and exhalations slow.
“This is Meridei. She’s worked as a conformist for about five and a half years now. She’s the most skilled at simulated drowning. She keeps her improv of questions and lectures smooth and to the point to make it easier on everyone.” Suseas smiles warmly at Meridei.Easier, huh? Is everyone here completely mad?
“Chekiss has been a patient in the intricate section for a very long time. He was admitted for murdering his wife and daughter. He is mute and will not cooperate with any of the conformists here. For the first year, we kept him on hydrotherapy and electroconvulsive therapy. Since that had no effect on him, we have decided to try this as we have come to the conclusion that his silence is by choice, and his uncooperative attitude—deliberate.”
I keep my eyes on Chekiss. His body remains still, his hands bound behind his back. He isn’t shaking from the cold or moaning from the pain. He is still, like the softness of waves before a storm.
“Miss Ambrose, can you sign this for me? It’s a nondisclosure agreement. You are not permitted to share with anyone what you see within this section today.”
That didn’t stop Scarlett.
I sign quickly, pressing down hard on the clipboard to keep my hand from trembling.
“Meridei, please continue.” Suseas waves her hand once. My stomach twists in three different directions. Meridei’s head drops down to her shiny black box. She pushes a button that lowers the anchor around his head into the cold water. He doesn’t resist or convulse. I expected the person undergoing this treatment to be outraged, flailing about uncontrollably. But Chekiss seems to have mentally prepared himself for this. He keeps his body relaxed while his head has been dunked in the water.
My hand clenches into a fist, my fingernails curling into the bed of my palms. A ripple of fight or flight pulses over me. I want to pull him free, and I want to do itnow.
Meridei watches her clock, counting the thirty seconds.
Out of pure empathy, my breath catches in my throat, and I hold it.
Twenty-five seconds go by, and his hands tighten. His body goes rigid, and he begins to flail. Chekiss’s knees knock against the wet floor hard. My lungs are set ablaze for him, burning and tightening like a severe muscle cramp.
Three more seconds.
A grunt gurgles from under the water as his frail body manages to loosen a few screws on the clamps from the thrashing. Meridei clicks a button, and the anchor is arched back up, dragging his upper body from the pool of ice water. He gasps for air through raspy windpipes. Coughing from small, but not fatal, intakes of water.
Meridei presses the button again, and he’s lowered back in the death tank. This time, he doesn’t have it in him to hold his breath as long. He’s tired from the last round, but he keeps still once more.
I wait for her to push the button impatiently. My heart vibrating like a power drill, and the muscles over my stomach hardening like a plate of armor. This time, he only lasts fifteen seconds before he begins convulsing again. His body bangs around against the tub and the metal restraints. Thirty seconds. He’s up gasping even harder for air.
I keep my hands pressed flat against my sides. I can’t show any signs of weakness. Even though I am writhing inside to knock Meridei off of her stool and release this man from bondage. I can’t help him, and it’s killing me inside. But that’s okay, as long as I don’t show it on the outside.
