Author’s Note: In this story, one term is approximately equal to ½ year.
Another old(ish) story of mine - I was playing around with first-person narrative, as I recall. I re-discovered it in one of my old notebooks pretty recently, and actually thought it was pretty good. It's kind of sad when you have way too many story ideas to use all at once.....
My Counselor says that today, they are bringing someone in to live at the end of the hall. It’s been empty for many terms, and I wonder who it is they’re bringing. There haven’t been any new residents in the dormitories at all since that room was made empty. I still remember the resident who lived in that room before, all that time ago – a little girl, much younger than me, labeled Mary. I had been pretty little myself, and we played together sometimes. I still miss her.
My Counselor says that the person who will be living in Mary’s room is an adult, a lot older than me. I am thirty terms old, so they must be very old indeed. My Counselor also says the person will be a man, which I find very disappointing. Boys aren’t very interesting, and adults – especially adult boys – are even less interesting. When I showed my Counselor my thought, she sighed and said that I wouldn’t be seeing him very often anyway. I wondered why, and she said that he was a red mark. I’ve seen red marks sometimes around the school – they’re the ones that always have big guards standing all around them, and they always wear the painful dampeners around their necks. I’ve only worn a dampener once, and I could barely stand it. It felt like my head was filled with many hammers, pounding against my skull. I feel sorry for the red marks, but my Counselor says they’re Unsafe. She tells me that if I ever see one without any guards – or, especially, without a dampener – I need to report them.
I want to ask why one is staying in this hall, when I know all the rest live in the restricted area on the far side of the compound. But I get the feeling that I shouldn’t ask. I always listen to these feelings – they are always right. I stay quiet and show no more questions, and my Counselor is pleased.
“You are a good girl, for being so compliant.” She says. “It’ll all be fine – trust me. You have no need to worry.”
I feel uncomfortable hiding my feelings from her, but I don’t want her to know how worried and annoyed I really am. She knows already, I think. The Counselors always know how you feel, even though they aren’t feelers. Feelers know by reaching inside you and seeing your feelings; Counselors know because they watch and study you. My Counselor is still pleased, though. Perhaps she is happy that I don’t argue or tell her how annoyed I am. That is something little children do. I am almost an adult, so I hide my feelings.
I can hear the hovercraft humming over the landing pad. I watch from my window as they lower the platform, and three figures come out. One moves very slowly, and the other two stand on either side of him. Looking more closely, I can see that their hands are clamped around the middle one’s arms. As they approach, I can see that they are holding the man up so that he can walk.
The man himself has white cuffs around his wrists, and a large black dampener mask covering his face. Seeing it makes me feel scared – I have only see one person wear one of those masks. It was a girl who was older than me, who muttered strange things and spoke to people who weren’t there. Only the really dangerous people wear them. The Very Unsafe.
They take him inside, and I know they’re headed this way. I open my door, and look out into the hallway, waiting. Soon, the sliding door at the end of the hall opens, and the three figures enter. I watch as they pass my door, getting a closer look. The man – the red mark – isn’t even really walking. His feet drag along the ground, too weak to support him. He wears a battered suit and tie, and he’s sort of fat. He doesn’t look very dangerous at all. At seeing him close-up, some of my fear goes away.
They disappear down the hall, and I hear them opening and closing the door to the empty room. There’s quiet for a moment, and then the two guards walk back down the hall, exiting through the sliding door.
Then it’s quiet again.
***
After the man comes, he does not make any sound, even after many days. It makes me nervous. I never go down the hall, but I still feel something strange. It’s a sort of heaviness, making me feel sad when I don’t want to be. There’s anger sometimes, too, coming in and out in hot waves. And then there’s some other feeling……a feeling like not believing something.
I ask my Counselor about it when she comes to visit me. She says that the man in Mary’s room is a feeler, but not just a feeler – he makes other people feel things, too. He manipulates them. That’s why he lives here, and not with the rest of the red marks. He would upset the people there, and that is dangerous.
My Counselor says that he is here also because he is like me – although I am not a feeler, but a thinker. I can see what other people are thinking, and I can show them what I am thinking, too. It is the only way I can talk, for I am mute. I can see how it might be the same – but it’s not exactly so. It still does not make sense.
I ask why the man is making me feel bad. My Counselor touches my shoulder with her soft hand.
“You, Cora, are so in control of your power. That man doesn’t realize what he’s doing, because he hasn’t discovered what his gift is yet. Such things usually come early in life, and he is old. These feelings he is giving you right now are the feelings he himself is experiencing right now. He can’t hold it in, or control it, like you can. Even with the dampener, it is very difficult to keep under control – and we can’t have him wear it all the time.”
I feel a little better – but only a little. I don’t like the idea of someone making me feel things, whether by accident or not. I want any feelings I have to be my own. But I can’t tell the Counselor this, because that would be complaining, and I do not complain.
My Counselor begins asking me her questions.
“Have you had any nightmares lately?”
I say no – my dreams are always the same.
“The same? You mean that every night you still have the same dream?”
I say yes.
“ Are the pills any help at all?”
I say no. They make it worse.
“Have you stopped taking them?”
I hesitate. My Counselor does not look pleased.
“Cora, you know how dangerous it is to stop taking your medicine without the doctor telling you that you can.”
I say again that the pills made the dream worse. I feel better without them.
My Counselor sighs.
“Well, you don’t seem to be showing any effects – but Cora, you can’t just quit taking medicine. I know it’s hard, but it’s meant to help you. To stop taking them suddenly is Unsafe. Do you understand?”
Of course I understand. I’m not a child anymore.
My Counselor sighs again, and asks a different question.
“Have you been having any headaches lately?”
Sometimes, I say. They make me feel like I want to throw up.
“How often?”
Not very, I say. About once a month. They are really bad, though, when they do happen.
My Counselor is silent, and then asks, “Are your dreams worse after the headaches?”
I think for a moment, and then slowly say yes.
She nods, and writes it down.
