The Institute

by Kayla Howarth



  THE INSTITUTE

  By Kayla Howarth

  The Institute Copyright © 2014 by Kayla Howarth

  Cover Illustration Copyright ©

  Cover Design by Wicked Book Covers

  https://www.wickedbookcovers.com

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher.

  For information regarding permission, write to:

  Kayla Howarth - permissions - kayla.howarth2010@gmail.com

  ISBN: 9781310357435

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Books by Kayla Howarth

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  I can smell summer, the scent of freshly cut grass, and rain in the air. It’s technically still spring, but in a few short weeks, I’ll be free.

  I’ll be free from school, free from assignments, and free from having to be cautious and alert for six hours a day five days a week. I won’t have to worry about drawing attention to myself or my brother. I won’t have to worry about blending in. I can just be me.

  Dad has only one rule for us while attending school: don’t draw attention to yourselves, don’t excel in anything. Keep your head down, your grades average, and don’t get too close to people. Okay, so that’s more like five rules, but they’re basically the same thing—be invisible.

  The rules aren’t really for me; they’re for my brother, Shilah. I bend the rules where I can, and in return, Dad gives me a little leeway. I’m not the Defective one after all.

  I’ve always hated that term, Defective—it implies that Shilah’s broken. He’s not. He just happens to have visions of the future. It’s a little strange, yes, but he’s not dangerous like everyone assumes. He’s not dangerous like the others.

  Our whole lives, they’ve drilled it into us that Defective people are too reckless and too unpredictable to live in society with “normal” people. So, we have to hide Shilah in plain sight. We try to fit in, keep to ourselves as much as possible, and keep suspicious behaviour to a minimum.

  I fear that one day I will wake up Defective. I fear that I’ll become a burden to my family. Guilt consumes me at these thoughts though, because I don’t want Shilah to think he’s a burden to me. He isn’t.

  While I don’t blame Shilah for the way we live, I’ve always assumed that when I graduate school, get married, and move out, I might have a sense of freedom. Like maybe I could start relaxing, live a normal life, and not be overly cautious of everything I say or do all the time. I don’t know why I think that though. Surely when I move out, I’ll still have contact with Shilah.

  Maybe deep down I know we can’t keep up this charade forever, and he’ll end up at the Institute where they say he belongs.

  I hate myself when I think like this. I love my brother, and I’ll do anything to protect him. I just can’t shake the feeling we’re going to lose him no matter what we do.

  As I walk to the train station after another gruellingly long and boring day at school, I try to fight off a headache. My mind feels like mush. Maybe if I was allowed to apply myself in my classes, I’d enjoy them more, but purposefully being average at school is actually harder than one might think. I realise how backwards my dad would sound to an outsider—what parent doesn’t want their children to excel? The father of a Defective child, that’s who.

  The afternoon rain that passed through earlier has moved on, but I’m still wet. My long brown hair is knotty and stringy from the humidity and sticks to my shoulders and back. I just want to get home and take a shower.

  I’m so focused on getting to the station on time that I don’t concentrate enough on my footing. The pavement changes from concrete to the slick, painted tile-type flooring that leads to the train platform. Add that to the residual water on my shoes, and I know I’m going down before I even fall. I just don’t have the time or the reflexes to stop it. My left leg goes out in front of me, the other curling underneath, as I slip to the ground, my hands springing out to catch my fall. My school bag lands on the ground with a thud and spills its contents everywhere. When will I learn to zip that thing up?

  Crawling around, I start putting my belongings back in my bag and then try to get up quickly, embarrassed by my fall. But as I put my foot underneath me to push myself back up, I slip again.

  Are you freaking kidding me?

  An arm reaches under my elbow and helps me up. I go to thank my rescuer, but when I see who it is, I’m met with an intense feeling of wanting to fall all over again—right into his arms. Piercing green eyes stare at me, so glassy I can almost make out my brown eyes reflected in his. His brown hair sits shaggily around his forehead and neck. He’s still holding onto my arm when I realise he’s saying something.

  “Are you okay?” he asks. At least, I think that’s what he asked.

  “Huh?” Wow, Allira, real articulate.

  “I asked if you were okay?” He raises an eyebrow when I don’t respond again. “I’m Drew. Did you hit your head or something? Or are you always this slow?”

  “I’m fine!” I say, finally snapping out of my stupor. I yank my arm out of his grasp and start to walk off. I don’t think I could be any more embarrassed.

  “You’re welcome!” he shouts after me. “It’s a good thing your bitch chip wasn’t affected by your fall,” he yells loud enough to make everyone look at me. Smirks and entertained grins cross my audience’s faces.

  I was wrong. I could be more embarrassed.