SHARD: Dystopia

September, 20XY
Beth Wildwood

So this is what a psyche eval looks like.

I sit in a waiting room. I’m given a form. I’m asked to rate how I feel. How often do I feel alone? Sad? Angry? Directionless? I put “never” down for all of them. Do I sleep well? Like the dead. Do I eat well? Like anyone is supposed to. Do I have friends? I hesitate before circling yes.

It goes on. And on. And on. It’s almost 100 questions. Do they hope I’ll get so tired that I’ll start being honest?

I turn the form in and wait. And wait. And finally, my name is called. I’m put in a chair. My doctor is a slim redhead who introduces herself only as “Vittoria.” I guess she thinks surnames are old fashioned.

She asks about the mission. I hesitate. I wonder how much I can get away with, before I talk:

“It was stressful.”

“Why?”

She looks at me with mild interest. It’s practiced. Liv warned me about these, back in December--before everything went tits up. She said the hardest part is to not get tripped up in your own lies. Keep the narrative simple. They want you to be sane. They’ll do their best to make sure you look sane.

No one likes a basketcase.

“Because. They wanted us to kill people.” I say it with less emotion than I intend.

“That bothered you?”

“...yes.”

“How much?”

“As much as it would bother any person,” I say tersely, “How much would it bother you?”

“I can’t say I’ve ever been in that position.”

“But you’re the one asking me how I feel.”

That makes her go quiet. I switch gears.

“Do you ever wonder if people would care if you died?”

She looks at me like she’s about to commit me. She probably is. I steam ahead:

“On the news, whenever I saw someone young die, the parents always talked about how awful it was to lose a child. But I always wondered if they were more sad that they lost a child, not the person who died. There’s a difference.”

“Losing anyone is hard,” she replies, writing as she speaks. My eyes are on her twitching pen.

“My parents talked about how hard it was to lose my brother. Their son. Never by his name. Always something to go along with it. He didn’t exist outside what they lost.”

The pen keeps moving.

“They wanted us to kill the nuns. They said to make it quick.”

“...did you?” She’s looking at me like she really, really wants me to trust her.

Of course not, I want to say. It’s never quick. Even being stabbed in the chest leaves you to drown in your own blood. It’s never merciful. What’s merciful about that?

I say nothing. I won’t give her anything.

“What do you mean by that?”

She shifts in her chair.

“Did you do what you were ordered to do?”

“Yes. I have to.”

“...How did you feel about that?”

“You don’t,” I reply quickly. I fold my hands in my lap. “You can’t. If you do, you might get killed.”

“I see. So how did you feel… after.”

“Numb,” I shrug. “Tired. It was almost four in the morning. Everyone was tired. No one knew what to do. We went back. We were debriefed. I went to sleep. Then I was told to come here.”

“And you felt numb?”

“What am I supposed to feel?” I ask, “Is there a scale for that?”

“No. How you feel is how you feel. No one can tell you otherwise.”

I want to laugh. I haven’t really “felt” in a while. Not happiness, anyway. Maybe, at best, neutral. I’m angry. Or sad. Or scared.

But never happy.

“Did they tell you to put me on meds or put me in SHU?” I have to ask. I need to know. I’m sure she’ll lie, and it’s risky to ask. But it sounds honest when she says it:

“I don’t normally prescribe medication and I don’t have the authority to give punishment like that. I just work here as a contracted consultant.”

“Consulting on what? How fucked up we all are?” I’m almost proud how flat and deadpan I’ve been keep my voice. You can’t get anything out of me if I don’t want to give it.

“I’m here to help.”

“After a battery of 92 questions asking about my mental health.”

“The form is required.”

“So was this conversation. It’s hard to see the difference.” I stare into her green eyes. It looks like she really does want to help people. Poor woman. There’s too many of us and not enough of her.

“I… only help people who want to be helped. I won’t force anything on you if you don’t want it.”

“I find that hard to believe.” The honesty in her voice is crippling to me. It hurts to know that there’s still one or two misguided people out there trying to save the world.

She closes her notebook and sets her pen aside. It’s been only 15 minutes.

“I know trusting people is hard for you, Beth. Losing your brother, then your sister--”

“Please don’t talk about my family,” I shoot back, “Just because you read my file doesn’t give you the right to talk about them.”

“I’m sorry. I just--Loss is hard. And then on top of that, being shoved headfirst into something you didn’t ask for… it’s a lot.”

“Of course it is,” I’m trying to reign in how I really feel. “I didn’t get a choice.”

I didn’t get a choice in any of this, I want to scream. I didn’t get to choose to endure 30 minutes of Ph d certified feel-goodery. I didn't get a choice in getting shoved through Basic training in three months; I didn't get a choice in being conscripted early; I didn't get a choice in being an Astrum. 

The session is quiet. I say what I think I should. I’m sad people died; it’s such a tragedy, isn’t it? I don’t justify anything. Nothing’s going to get past this woman. She has a degree in head-shrinkage.

The hour ends with me asking if I have to come back. She says she doesn’t know. I want to curse her out. She’s the damn doctor. I’m the one being forced here. But I nod. I thank her for her time.

When I leave, I want to punch a wall.