I wonder how she'd react if I told her the ground just slanted more and more until my feet simply couldn't find purchase on the slope. I wonder how she'd react if I told her the waves just keep coming, and I can see that they've got it in for me. For all my studiousness, for all my intelligence, I just don't know how else to put it right now. I lost the ability to breathe. I lost my fluency in your langauge of Normals. I developed this fascination with getting under my skin.
I clear my throat; my voice sounds dry and creaky, so different from a moment ago. (You give too much importance to your own fantasies, Val. Watch it,) says a voice in my head. "Um, I think the... the doctor called me in."
"Well, I know that, Valerie. I'm wondering what your side of the story is."
I have no story. My story is all plagarism. "I guess he was thinking I'd... hurt myself, or something."
"Do you think you might hurt yourself, Valerie?"
"It doesn't hurt," I say before I think. (Oh, good one, you're just waxing glib today, aren't you Val?) (Shut up,) I mutter back, being careful not to move my lips.
The woman looks me over with those pursed-up lips again. "What doesn't hurt?" Her words remind me of mine, a few moments ago. Who the fuck is they?... Don't play games with me. It's hard to be direct with someone who doesn't share your world.
"I guess when I... when I cut myself," I say.
"Dr. Herman thought those cuts were pretty serious," the woman observes, like I'm stupid. "He told us you're a lucky girl to be here, you could have done some serious damage to yourself."
When I discovered cutting maybe four years ago I thought I had it made. I ripped the plastic off of my little pink shaving razor, ripping my fingernails all to hell in the process, and caressed my skin so gently with the edge of it, and all my problems seemed to fade in a calm euphoric haze. It never lasted long, but it gave me an edge I hadn't had before. The trouble is, I guess it did get deeper and deeper, for it to still feel. My blood was used to flowing and it needed a special occasion to make me feel so calm and relieved, nowadays. It couldn't have hurt me really, though. I knew to avoid my wrists. That horrible doctor was just trying to scare me.
The woman hasn't yet told me her name. Maybe I missed it. I'm not about to ask, though. Besides awkwardness, being a drowning person in a world of people who are breathing fine has taught me that no matter what they say, stupid questions do exist. They're any question I would think to ask.
She seems to grow tired of waiting for me to respond, and went on with her speech. "So why have you been cutting on yourself, Valerie?"
Grant me the strength to answer enough questions so she gets out of here, oh please. Just that much strength, just a little bit of energy. But how do I answer such a question, and still seem normal? Close to normal, anyway. Halfway to normal. Appearances have to be kept up, even in the hospital. Otherwise the awkwardness of this would swallow me up.
"It makes me feel better," I mumble. Something about this room, the way the air manages to be stagnant and air-conditioned at the same time.
"So you've been having some problems with depression?"
"I guess so."
She scribbles triumphantly. Ah, something to put on the The Chart. I fit her mold. I'm glad cutting is more common these days; from what I've read, they used to give you a real wide berth for doing things like that. Maybe they still do, but at least they've heard of it before. I hate it when people say cutting on yourself, though. On simply isn't a preposition that goes with the word. You can cut things, you can cut through things, you can even cut into things. But you can't cut on them, unless you're perhaps sitting on top of them when you cut. I'm not a contortionist.
"Have you tried any medication for this, Ms. Nesbitt?" Oh ho, now that I have a category, I'm worthy of a surname. I feel sorry for this woman momentarily, even if she is ranged against me, jingling her keys in her pocket for security. What a tired life she must have. Even tireder than mine. At least when I gave up, they could tell. They sent me away.
She is still talking. "... been having any trouble eating, or sleeping? Have you been feeling hopeless, like there's no point? Worthless?" She seems energized, purposeful. I can see her pointy little mind thinking about Prozac and a short little stay, just till they can make me say I won't cut any more. My gift of anticipation.
I'll humor her, because I'd be just as happy with being here as little as I can. I don't care if I have to fit into her box to do it. What she doesn't know won't hurt her. "Yes, no, yes, yes."
"I see..." she wrote more quickly. "And have you seen anyone about this in the past? A therapist, a doctor?"
I catch myself on the brink of telling her that my mom wouldn't appreciate that, now, would she? Keep it short, and they'll let me out. Maybe they'll even let me out tonight. My spirits rise a tiny bit with that thought. "No," I say.
"It's probably a good idea to make an appointment at your school's mental health center," says the woman. "And a psychiatrist. You know, the right medication can really help lift your spirits. Our doctors here will be able to prescribe you something, but you'll need to have a follow up." She is closing her notebook. "In the meantime, why don't you get some rest? You'll be in room 15... Have you had supper?"
"Yes," I lied. Three hours ago I was sitting in the health center waiting on the doctors, an hour before that I was sitting in my dorm waiting on the residential assistant. I guess the cuts (day-old ones, even) freaked my roommate out. I didn't mean to let her see them. I skipped lunch, too, but that was normal. It is true that I haven't been hungry lately. Food seems like too much work.
The woman has gotten up and I glean from her posture that I'm supposed to precede her out of the room. She shows me towels, where the extra blankets are supposed to be although they're out right now, and my room.
There are two beds, both empty. The door is the same as the other, heavy and extra-wide, and the floor is just as hard and tiled. I am thankful for the solitude, and turn out the lights as soon as she goes away.
Not to sleep. To make friends with the darkness.
3747 is not bad, I think. The parts in the hospital are easiest to write, because I only have to draw on my own experience. I guess that's why writing what you know is so great. Now, it's bedtime!
It is said that everyone gets what they need in the Endless City; that there is no poverty, no hunger, no need for theft or violence. It is true that the City is in a unique position in regards to an energy source, being fueled entirely by psionic power, in some cases even unwitting. It wasn't much different from the principle that governs some fantasy kingdoms; that a place needs only to be believed in to be real. In the Endless City, things needed to be believed with sufficuent force by people who possessed a talent for it. People were the City's one true resource, so it was certainly true that there was a place for everyone. Perhaps the lack of poverty was only a form of safekeeping for those who needed to believe in their freedom.
Valerie was one such person, and if people were resources, a fortune was devoted to keeping her world subtly enclosed, Truman-Show-like. Her apartment was large and airy, with special attention devoted to her particular interests. The sound system was state-of-the-art, the bathroom had a shower/tub that was fantastical in its proportions, the VR suit thorough and realistic. Valerie even had and practiced on a bass guitar, which she didn't play in the outside world.
The apartment was simple to maintain - Valerie did most of the upkeep herself. The energy required for four-or-so roomsful of gadgets, furniture, plumbing, and foodstuffs was practically negligible. The books and music required a little more effort, but on the whole needed very little maintenance because for the most part they existed in the outside world Valerie was used to.
Such things were as plentiful in the City as salt water in a seaside town, so the City council was able to make their claims about 0% poverty.
But the true measure of wealth was friends (even enemies, acquaintances), and freedom, or similar intangibles. Information was valuable enough to be hoarded like gold. Although a fortune of these things were spent on Valerie, she had little of them for herself. She was practically friendless, limited to chance encounters with strangers, half of which always seemed to end in sex. (This too served its purpose; it was easy for Valerie to believe she was only daydreaming if her encounters were so predictable, reasonable.) And while Valerie had never noticed, she was a prisoner. Her cage was portable, watched-over, and all the more complete for its unobtrusiveness.
For a vivid daydream, the world she was allowed to live in was pretty good, escapism at its finest. She could taste the food, feel the textures, immerse herself in sensation. Often, especially when she was making an effort to participate actively in the outside world, the memories of her experiences in the City did not stay with her, at least not consciously. Lately, she remembered everything. And the City council was worried about the implications of this.
Council was a polite way of putting it though, a euphemism. Doran thought of the organization he worked for as the Red Court, which for all he knew was another euphemism. He wasn't fooling himself that he was anywhere near the bottom layer, if there even was one. He suspected at times that the layering system was an endless loop, repeating with new shades of meaning every time you thought you had the real thing.
Sometimes he envied people like Valerie who had their invisible prisons. He had more freedom and connections, but not the same degree of choice. Valerie, were she to take up a hobby or job in the City, would be doing it because she felt like it. He had the ultimate in job security: the only reason he existed was to fulfill the miscellaneous intelligence and security operations that fell to him, and to scour the City for problems even on his own time. Valerie might have had less choice than she knew about the matter, but illusions were almost always comforting. He could have done with a few more illusions, himself.
He sipped a latté he'd just purchased at an autocafe, scanning the street up and down, eagle-eyed out of habit. It seemed unusually quiet; a sense of quiet fear perhaps, anticipation. Enough of the City was aware of the current outside situation to be wary. It'd be a busy week.
Doran was hopeful after the intake interview, though. It sounded as if the hospital was as interested as Valerie was in getting her processed and out of there. If she only managed to get it together and tell the doctors what they wanted to hear, she'd be out of there tomorrow, and maybe she wouldn't encounter the Red Court at all.
Wishful thinking, maybe, but the mind had a lot of power in the City.
I woke up too early again this morning and couldn't stop thinking about the story. I started typing before I even got out of bed... I hope the excitement wanes soon so I can sleep, but the writing is coming along nicely.
Rain streaked grayly on the outside of the apartment's floor-to-ceiling windows. People below hurried by, their umbrellas tiny dots of lightly tinted plastic. Valerie sat down on her couch, leaning back until her head rested against the cold glass behind her, closing her eyes and listening to the thudding drops, drawing in deep shaky breaths.
She wasn't going to cry. Valerie never cried. But it had been an extremely long, terrible day. One of the worst she could remember, all in all. Now that she was back in safe, familiar surroundings, she wanted to curl up into a tiny ball, go to sleep, and wake up maybe in a year or so. Maybe never.
She didn't sleep, though. She thought about her encounter earlier that day, in the brilliant sharp autumn sunrise. The person who had said they only wanted to warn her - warn her of what? What could possibly hurt her now? Valerie knew better than to say that things had gotten as bad as they could get. Things had a way of always getting worse. But right now, it didn't feel as though there was anywhere to go but up.
This evening she was restless but tired, moody, unsatisfied. She flipped through her meager collection of music without seeing anything that caught her interest. She was bored, unsettled. She loved rainy days, usually, because they made her feel vital, as though she were maybe a part of the world after all. She was most at home in the water, for all that she made a big show of drowning. It was why she'd imagined herself a glorious bathtub in this place - it was a combination jacuzzi and surround shower, with six heads to beat their liquid soothingly into her body, and four jets in the tub for bubbles and relaxation. She liked water even in such a tame form, and had been known to splash in the tub just to see the way it moved.
But she didn't want a bath tonight, and all of her amusements and gadgets seemed pale and boring. She thought it was cruel of the world to inflict her with restlessness and exhaustion, especially when she was only daydreaming. (Valerie never worried about how real the daydreams were to her, anymore. It was too much a part of her reality by now.)
She twisted her arms around to try to rub her own shoulders, only making the pain more insistent and throbbing. I am so screwed, Valerie thought. I really don't know what is wrong with me. I can't seem to manage this living thing, at all. I thought I was joking when I said I'd kill myself if it weren't for my mom. Now I'm not so sure. The intensity of her emotion suprised her. If there was one phrase Valerie had become familiar with, it was "flatness of affect." Her mask was thorough mostly because she let herself be it. And to perfect the composure she had to present, Valerie was used to being hollow and detached. It wasn't just that she didn't have to feel things she didn't want to; she couldn't feel things even when she yearned for them. Not really. That was one theory, anyhow. She didn't know if she would even be able to tell the difference.
Her hair fell into her face like it was an enemy. It always seemed shaggier in here than outside, as though it knew she couldn't rule it as completely with trimmings and hair products. She'd never found a barber or stylist that she could remember while wandering the streets, but her hair didn't grow over time. It was always the same, a couple shades darker and redder than her plain brown hair in the real world, chin-length, with long unkempt bangs obscuring her vision whenever possible. She pushed it back from her forehead decisively and used the momentum of the movement to stand up.
"Fine," she said aloud to her empty apartment. "I'm going out." She pushed her finger into the slot that would open the door only for her, walked through, and waited for it to close behind her. She could never get over the technological wonders of this world that the real one couldn't help to compete with. I guess if you dream, you might as well dream big, she thought. She particularly appreciated the air chutes that replaced elevators – you stepped in, floated (okay, more like zoomed) down or up, and there you were. She could never get over that little jump of fear as she stepped over the edge, and she always wondered what would happen if the chute was malfunctioning. She kind of wished it would, sometime. Today.
She had forgotten to bring an umbrella and the rain was cold and shocking, waking her up with little slaps in the face. Out of habit she tilted her head back to taste; this rain was ice-cold and had a faint bitter aftertaste. It varied, especially between the country and the city. It seemed especially appropriate to drink in the smog-flavored water, she thought, because when the waves closed over her head for the last time she suspected they'd be especially acidic. She'd never noticed smog in the City.
Valerie set off in a random direction and just walked. She didn't want to meet anyone, or talk to anyone, or think about her life. She didn't want anyone to know her name, or what she was doing, or about her hospital admission. She wanted the water to wash into her body through her eyes and mouth and ears and fill up her body until there was no more room for thoughts or emotions or anything. She wanted not even to notice the scenery, she wanted oblivion. So she walked. Maybe a bus would run her over. Probably not. The probably had some kind of space-age braking system that didn't even need a driver's input. She saw what she assumed to be buses, occasionally, but she'd never been on one.
When the buildings started to seem repetitive, she turned a corner. She let minutes turn into hours and refused to feel the tiredness in her limbs. She didn't listen to the constant critisicms that were her companions in her head. Although the voices always seemed more subtle her in her world of daydreams, which was just another thing to be grateful for. Gratefulness wasn't her strong suit.
A shadow flickered in the corner of her eye, intrusive and suspicious. She turned around and saw only a shop front, some sort of deli. She ducked into the doorway on a whim.
The place was full of people, the buzz of conversation quiet and steady. Everyone seemed to have their place, to be sure of what they were doing (and eating) and where they were going. Valerie scanned her eyes across the whole room, which wasn't big. She didn't know what she expected to find or notice. The food dispensers along one wall smelled stale and overworked; it was a busy place. Most of the businesses in the City had these dispensers; people talked about "buying" things, but most products for sale were so cheap that the dispensers only needed a fingerprint, and goods were dispensed automatically. There were, of course, people who prefer to make things by hand, to cook their own recipes imperfectly, with varying degrees of success. Most people she'd met had something they liked to do with their hands. Her hobby was special – a sleek Fender p-bass she'd named Odile rested on its stand back in her living room. She could never afford a bass outside her head, but she worked hard at it here, and derived satisfaction from the way she halted through the notes, her fingers growing calloused and rough, her progress tangible. Stores that sold people's handmade items, or restaurants with cooking from scratch, usually operated on a sort of barter system. Mostly shopowners wanted Valerie to put on a VR set, not a full one, just the headset, and concentrate on some scene they'd made. She assumed they were collecting memories for a sort of scrapbook; she never thought too much about the idea. She was used to taking things in without questions, suppressing and concealing any curiousity that arose. Even in a place as populated as the City, building contents were usually just backdrops for Valerie. She preferred to spend her time outdoors, or in her apartment.
She punched in an order for a coffee (caffeine seemed to be the City's drug of choice) and took it to a table in the corner, tiny but empty. She wished she knew if the person who'd flickered out of view was even in here, and if they were, who it was. She felt nervous, out of place, conspicuous. A little ridiculous even. Which was bad. If she didn't belong in the City, there was nowhere for her. The City was her refuge, her space. The City was why it was okay that she was so out of place in the real world. Why it didn't matter if she couldn't make friends, if she had no niche in the college or the world. She'd always drifted through, apart, and even before people knew her, they knew to give her space. People had a kind of sixth sense about who was an outcast. College wasn't very different from high school. There were more people, so it was less known that she had no social life; there were no rumors and whispers the way there had been in high school. But there was no one who paid her the slightest bit of attention, not really. Her roommate talked to her occasionally, but that was more a reflex; she was someone who couldn't help talking to whoever is at hand. She never ate with Valerie or offered to go study in the coffeeshop together.
Valerie didn't have much of a social life in her daydreams, but she did have something as precious, which was a sense of belonging. There were no whispers, no roomfuls of people instinctively giving her space. When she went for a walk, she didn't feel stupid or ugly or afraid. She felt quiet, and alone rather than lonely. If she met someone, going for a walk, say, or at a coffeeshop like this, they'd usually talk to her. There were no forced interactions, which made the world quieter and safer. But today that security seemed to have fled, along with her composure, along with her success at scraping by in the real world. Out there, she was locked up in a psych ward, and it felt like people knew. Like they were looking at her. She was so egotistical it was funny. Here she is sitting in a roomful of people she'd never met, and Valerie was imagining that they knew all her shameful secrets, that they were looking at her.
Disgusted with herself, Valerie jumped up, nearly tipping her chair over, and hurried outside, leaving her coffee on the table behind her. Outside the rain had slackened, and the drizzle was not satisfying the way the cold shocking rain had been. It was half-assed, indecisive. Being there, but not putting much effort into anything. Like Valerie.
I download an open-source office suite called openOffice.org (I think they title is mainly so they can call it oOo), and I'm really happy, because I wasn't looking forward to the day when I'd have to install Word and such on this computer. The word-processing program is spiffy and fun, and seems to have a lot of funtionality.
I'm going to do my writing in there, because trying to write directly into Moveable Type was making all my segments be too short. I'm pretty pleased with the way things were going, although I am worried that writing too many things from Doran's point of view will give the reader too much information, too early.
I guess I was sort of going with the theory that the reader discovers the nature of the world on the same sort of timeline as Valerie. But that isn't how things are shaping up, and it's generating me too many words for me to complain. So I'm going to go with that; I like the freedom it gives me, it was hard to always be limited to Valerie's small knowledge and experiences and perspective. And I think Doran has a lot of potential to rebel. There's all kinds of directions this thing could go.
Today and yesterday we've been having a pretty hard time - unrelated to writing the novel, but this afternoon I realized that all of my frustration and angst were putting me right into Valerie's tired little shoes, and I think instead of writing in tunneling this month I'll be using a lot of our feelings to put into the book. It's all for a good cause.
I find myself wishing I could be more like Valerie - she seems so much stronger than most of us are here, so much more able to say fuck-you to the world.
I think writing in a word-processing document is allowing me to write with more quantity and less quality, less worrying, less editing. I think that's a good thing.