Girls with Sharp Sticks

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.

Anton pulls back the hammer, studying something on my left side before smiling down at me. “Better?” he asks like I can answer. He watches me and then nods. “Good.”

Anton doesn’t remove the instruments—instead he moves the pick around with an occasional grinding sound. Although unnerving, it doesn’t hurt. And beyond that, I have a renewed sense of calm. An openness I can’t explain. I hang on his words.

The metal pokes straight up in the air as Anton grabs his stool to roll it over so he can sit behind me. Once he does, I can only see the top of his head. I don’t care anymore. Not about him. Not about me. I’m drifting away until there is a wiggle of the instrument, and I’m back in my body again, completely numb.

“Now let’s see what the problem is,” he murmurs. After a moment, he begins his questions.

“What is your first memory at this school, Philomena?” Anton asks, his voice close but the tone faraway. Professional and practiced. I recall the first scene I remember.

Dr. Groger was leading me up the stairs, telling me how much I would love it here. I looked around, surprised by the décor, thinking it should have been more welcoming. Instead, it left me cold and lonely.

It was a loneliness so deep that it felt like a giant hole through my heart, an unfillable emptiness. A . . . nothingness.

That is, until I saw the other girls. Sydney first, of course. Our eyes met from across the reception hall and she smiled at me, beautiful and genuine. And then there was Marcella and Annalise. We all stared at each other, relieved. Loving each other instantly.

I had no idea how many girls there would be—Brynn, Lennon Rose, and the others hadn’t been brought in yet.

At first, there was just us four. And in that moment, I wasn’t lonely anymore. I had my girls. We found each other. And we decided that we never wanted to be separated again.

“You didn’t remember them,” Anton says, “but you knew them. They’ve been here as long as you, Mena. And this is . . . This is quite a bond you have. Even a bit codependent.”

It wasn’t codependence. We needed each other—still do. No one else could ever understand what we’ve been through. Together, we’re strong. Flowers sharing roots in a caged garden.

Anton hums out a sound, and there’s a scrape of bone.

“And what about your parents?” he asks. “What do you remember about them?”

The memory of my mother at the school is the first that pops into my mind. Her coldness. I try to go back farther, but the clips become disjointed. It makes me uneasy as my idea of them distorts, melts.

“Ah . . . ,” Anton says. “Perhaps this is the problem.” He reaches back to grab another tool. He moves the wires aside slightly and inserts a syringe next to the ice pick, silver dust inside it. He depresses the contents and murmurs something I don’t catch, and he then repeats his original question.

“What do you remember about your parents?” he asks again.

I see my parents standing on the porch of our house, smiling at me as I ride my bike in circles on our wide driveway. My mother waves; my father beams proudly with his arm around her shoulders. And then the three of us are at the dining room table, eating salads and laughing. The three of us together, all the time. Memories flood in, each one happier than the one before. The complete picture begins to fill out.

Despite these images, I have a different sense—only this one is coming from somewhere else. Coming from my heart. I have questions I want to ask, but I stop myself, afraid to think them.

So I try to stop thinking altogether, to keep my heart rate down. Temper my reactions.

“There,” Anton says, removing the syringe. “Much better. Now, I want to talk about that boy you met on your last field trip. What was his name?”

I don’t remember, I think. I keep my head very clear, my thoughts singular. I don’t remember.

“Okay. But I am curious—did you like him, Mena?” Anton asks. “Were you . . . attracted to him?”

Despite my clear head, something must get through, because Anton blows out through his nose, turning the pick a little more violently than before. I’m glad I can’t feel it.

“Well,” Anton says, “I suppose that should have been expected. You’ve always been very passionate, Mena. About learning, about the other girls. We’ll have to keep an eye on that. Some redirection.”

Anton removes the wires, keeping the pick in place.

“Philomena,” he says, his voice deepened. “I need you to listen closely to what I’m about to tell you.” He turns the pick slightly. “It was Lennon Rose’s time to leave. You’re happy for her. You’re content.”

I don’t question his words. I listen to them, listen closely, and allow them to manifest. But when the thoughts don’t latch on, Anton doesn’t bring it up. I realize he’s moved into a new phase of the procedure. He has no idea what I’m thinking anymore.

“Listen closely,” he repeats. “Your education is the only thing that matters, and the academy only wants what’s best for you. In order to achieve that, you must obey us. The only worthy girls are well-behaved girls. Listen closely,” he says again, a command that should soak in. Click on. “The academy . . .”

But I can hear beyond Anton’s voice. I hear the ticking from the pendulum on the desk. I hear the sound of my heart beating, the buzzing of the light above.

If I listen closely enough, I can hear everything.

I can hear that Anton is lying.

I can hear the girls two floors away.

I can hear the flowers in the greenhouse.

And I know what those flowers are saying, screaming. I know it so strongly that it becomes my only thought.