Defect - By Ryann Kerekes Page 0,4

she’s considering how to tell me. “Defects,” she emphasizes the word, “are taken to the testing center in Ward A, where we try to discover why the technology failed.”

Defect. The stories come flooding back. Whispered rumors on the playground at school. Simon’s older brother was one of them. A Defect. He was kept in the compound for endless psychological testing, as they tried to uncover what was different about his mind.

She looks back up at me. “Defects who show certain abilities are taken to Ward B and trained to become guards, to work at the compound patrolling the fence and doing other jobs under the direction of the military.”

“What are we even discussing this for? She won’t make a good guard. Take her, Dorie,” O’Donovan says and turns to leave.

After a second, Will drops his eyes from mine and follows O’Donovan out of the room. I’m unsure whether he’s relieved or disappointed that he doesn’t have to take me.

Dorie grips my arm and pushes me forward. “Move.”

I stumble toward the door, nearly tripping over my own feet. I clutch the door frame and hold myself there. “Wait. It can’t be right. Do it to me again,” I turn back to face them, pleading.

“There’s no use, Eve. The mindscan is never wrong. And with the results you received – there’s no denying your fate.” What does that mean? What are my results?

Dorie pries my fingers from the door and shoves me forward. I pull the robe closed in front of me and let her move me farther along, down the hall, deeper into the compound.

I picture my mother in the waiting room being pulled aside and told of the news. I can see her eyes fill with tears and imagine her taking the news silently, nodding to their words. Words like diseased, and incurable. Defect. They are just words though. They will not define me.

***

An uncomfortable fullness in my bladder wakes me from a deep, but restless sleep. I shift on the bed, badly in need of a bathroom, before realizing my ankles are tethered to the footboard. Momentarily forgetting about the need to pee, I survey the length of my body. I’m wearing scratchy grey cotton scrubs that I have no memory changing into. I seem to be in one piece, yet feel woozy and weak.

I look over the rest of myself and become aware of new aches and pains. I’m certain I’ve been prodded and poked and shudder at the thought. My arms are bruised with track marks. The skin is tender and purple, puckered up where it met countless needles.

My eyes travel along my arm and stop at the new tattoo across my wrist. It’s a barcode with the number 5491 in block lettering underneath. The black numbers are raised and red, as if my skin is rebelling against them. I am marked as a Defect, a constant reminder that I can never go home.

My head throbs. I clench my eyes closed and curl up on my side, trying to lessen the insistence in my bladder. I try to recall the series of events between walking into the compound with my mom and ending with me in this bed. I’m strapped to a hospital bed in what I can only guess is a mental ward. My stomach grumbles loudly, forcing me back into awareness.

I breathe deeply, willing myself to stay calm. Freaking out, hyperventilating and giving into the gravity of the situation will get me nowhere. If I stay calm and look at things rationally, I’ll have a much better chance of surviving this nightmare. They can only take what you give them. They will not take my sanity, my inner strength.

The first order of business is a bathroom. Surely someone will come by soon to check on me. And then I can figure out where I am. Having taken stock of my injuries and various discomforts, I survey the room around me. Faint light seeps into the edges of the room from the narrow windows near the ceiling, like we’re underground. Row after row of hospital beds with sleeping women line the room. Some are old, their gray hair scattered across their pillows, and some closer to my age, their faces smooth in sleep. I look at the bed across from mine, and dark eyes are looking back at me.

“You’re up,” she whispers after a moment of studying me in silence. I watch her without answering. Her hair is black and frizzy, like she stuck her finger