Read Online Marked by Jenny Martin - Free Book Online Page A

Zaide?” she answers. “The lieutenant in communications?”
    I nod again.
    â€œThe boy’s her brother. We’re trying out stim therapy, to see if it helps him.”
    When I squint in confusion, she elaborates. “Aram’s a recovering sap addict. Stim’s a new approach, something we’ve learned from the Cyanese, but from what I’ve seen, it’s pretty effective.”
    â€œHow’s it work?” I ask her, shifting to give her more room on the gurney.
    â€œWe hook him up, and give him a programmable serum that zeroes in on certain areas of his brain while he’s unconscious.” She frowns, struggling to explain. “Stim therapy allows us to stimulate, or in this case, de-stimulate his nervous system. It’s like turning the volume down, or turning part of it off. Short intervals, so that the mind has a better chance to recover. Sometimes we can reverse the damage. And even when we can’t, patients have an easier time building new neural pathways. It’s a real second chance for addicts.”
    I think of my mother, locked away in the Spire, imprisoned by the crumbling walls of her own mind. A pang ofremorse needles me. I should’ve taken her with me when I had the chance, and I can’t let it go. “So he’ll be okay?” I ask Mary.
    â€œHopefully.” She sighs. “These things take time. Some things heal more slowly than others.”
    I look away when her hand touches my forehead. Gently, she tries to smooth the furrow in my brow. “There are other therapies we’ve learned from the Cyanese.” She pauses. “There’s one I’d like you to consider. I’ve been working on it.”
    My throat dries up even though I’m burning to answer.
    â€œIt’s not weakness to care for yourself,” she prods. “If you can’t, how can you care for anyone else?”
    I swallow hard. “I don’t know where to start.”
    â€œYou can start by admitting you’re wounded.”
    Instinctively, my body wants to curl into itself. Instead, I roll onto my back. I stare at the ceiling, where the yellowed tent’s most discolored, stained by a hundred storms. Slowly, I force the words out. “Sometimes I can’t sleep. I see things. Every time I think about . . .”
    I start to shut down again, but Mary takes my hand. The gentle squeeze in her grip wrings out an answer.
    I struggle to meet her eyes. Asking for help seems the hardest thing of all. “Tell me how . . .” I say at last. “Tell me how to make it stop.”

    Mary has lots of ideas about my recovery, but none of them look so good in daylight.
    I stand in the doorway of a small, concrete-walled room. It’s just an attached storage hold behind the prep area of the mess hall. I suppose it makes sense to meet in the middle of the day, when hardly anyone else is around. Better to come here, where there’s privacy. We can have our own safe space, beyond the dishwashers and bubbling pots.
    The sliding metal door is cracked, and I linger behind it, rooted in a cloud of filmy steam. Looks plenty cool and dry in the hold, but I’m not prepared to walk in.
    Inside, there’s quiet talk. By the sound of it, they’ve already started. There’s a ring of flimsy chairs, and most are occupied. I recognize a few of these guys: Belach, our quartermaster. One of the guys who works here in the mess, and one of Nandan’s lieutenants. And then there’s Mary, sitting next to another officer, an elderly Biseran woman, who I’ve heard used to serve in a far-flung monastery.
    My hand hovers at the door, but I can’t bring myself to push it wide open. To sit there and talk about what I’ve been through in front of them is not going to help. Just standing here, on the edge, is already pushing mybrain into that blinding space where my pulse wakes up.
    I take a step back, but I’m