Staying at the hospital has made me more rested and relaxed than I’ve felt in days, probably even weeks. I guess injuring my ankle was a blessing in disguise.
I wonder if Tate’s been told where I am. Probably not, but I’m hoping one of the lenient guards has let him know. I told him I’d be back soon, but I didn’t think I’d be in here for days.
It’s still been difficult to get a decent sleep with a nurse coming in every four hours to check my blood pressure and stats. I have a sprained ankle. I don’t know what my blood pressure has to do with it. With nothing else to do other than rest and eat, I’ve been able to catch up on my sleep. The food has been an improvement too, still not as good as the food on the farm, but a lot better than the stuff they were feeding me when I was down in the cells. I know this isn’t going to last though.
My foot’s still sore, but I can put weight on it a little, so I’m only limping now instead of needing to be carried. My doctor has come to check on me every day. I think she’s the reason I haven’t gone back to my cell yet; she keeps insisting it’s still not getting better. In a weird way, it feels like I have a piece of Aunt Kenna with me when I’m around her. I know it doesn’t make any sense because I know it’s not her, but she just reminds me of Aunt Kenna to the point that it doesn’t hurt to miss her as much. I think she knows my foot’s getting better but wants to keep me up here for as long as she can. She knows what happens in “The Crypt”—that’s the term she used for where I was being held—and she’s trying to buy me as much time away from it as possible. I wonder if she’s Defective too, and that’s why she’s being so nice.
I have to admit, not everyone here is horrible. There’s the guard who let Tate in to see me, the guard who let me shower when I wasn’t supposed to, even the girl who strapped me to the gurney during my last interrogation—I could tell she didn’t like what she was doing but had no other choice. Now my doctor is delaying my torture. At a guess though, I’d say all of these people are Defective and can relate to what we’re going through.
I asked my doctor about x-raying my foot, but she said that the Institute won’t allow for such costly tests if it’s not needed. She’s confident it isn’t broken, but if it’s not healed in a few more days, she’ll then send me for an x-ray. She might not see an improvement, but I can definitely feel one, not that I’m telling them that though. I’m in no rush to get back to my cell, so I’m okay that she’s hesitant to release me.
I’m so scared of the unknown. I always have been. I’ve always been the kind of person to run scenarios and “what ifs” through my head and then come up with reasonable, rational plans for when or if that situation occurs. It’s all pointless though. I know if it was to ever happen, those plans would go straight out the window.
I’m trying right now to think of the best way to handle what’s to come, and all I can think is “as long as I don’t tell them what I know, I’ll be successful.” Thinking back to Aunt Kenna telling me we have to endure the tough times to become strong, I’m starting to think that if I take much more of it I won’t be strong at all, I’ll be broken. I’m assuming that’s their goal: to break me. I wonder what they will do to me next. I’m trying hard not to think about the things they could possibly do to me. The list is endless and terrifying.
Every time someone comes in to check on me, I flinch. I know the doctor has said I’m not ready to be released, but I’m sure my guards and interrogators have other ideas. I’m just waiting to be taken back. These few days have hindered their plan. I’m well rested and fed now—they’ll have to start all over again to get me to breaking point.
Voices fill the hallway, and I brace myself for guards to walk through my door to take me away. Only, I’m shocked to see who’s actually come to see me. I have not run this scenario through my head at all. There, standing in the doorway of my hospital room, is none other than the director of the Institute himself, Mr. Brookfield.