by Dea Poirier
“Can I ask you something?” The question tumbles out of me. It’s for the best, it’s only a matter of time before I lose my nerve.
He shrugs and waves his hand at me. “Ask away.” A sly smile creeps across his face, but I’m not sure why.
“Have I been here the last few weeks?”
His eyebrow perks up, and he nods. “Sure have. Where else would you have been?”
“Have I been weird or anything?” I ask as uncertainty nags at me. It seems a strange thing to ask, but I need to figure out what happened to me over the past few weeks. My sanity depends on it.
“Weird for here, or weird for you?” The way he asks, I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.
“Both, I guess.”
“You’ve been a little quiet. But nothing weird.” He scoots closer to me. Close enough that I look away and swallow hard.
A bit of the anxiety welled up inside me unravels as I exhale.
“It’s going to be okay,” he says as he pats my arm.
How can he be so sure? He found me with a knife. He knows I may have killed at least one person already.
I wish he was right, but deep down, I know he’s wrong.
SAYID’S SNORES ECHO through our bedroom, he sounds like a growling bear. I lean against the wall using the scant moonlight to read. Sleep doesn’t come easy, fears that I’ll wake up with another knife in my hand, that another few weeks of my life will disappear nearly give me a panic attack if I close my eyes on purpose. It’s so late, the only thing I can hear outside is the trickle of rain and a breathy wind. The rest of Dozier is silent, deep within a slumber like Sayid.
I turn the page of my book after I’ve read the same sentence five times and my mind still won’t process it. I’m not sure how long I’ve been staring at the words not really reading. Downstairs, a noise cuts through the silence, the sound of a body hitting a wall. Thanks to my father, it’s a noise I’ve heard at least a hundred times. I wait, my ears perked. I hear the noise again, followed by a high voice I recognize.
“Help me,” Olivia screams.
I run down the stairs two at a time, gripping the handrail so that my rushed steps won’t send me careening into the floor. On the first floor I search for her, my heart pounds, my breaths are as sharp as razors. My chest is tight with fear.
Where is she?
Behind me, I hear banging. Another slam. I burst through the bathroom door. But it’s not Olivia.
Of course it’s not her, she’s dead you idiot.
I see a mop of brown hair on the floor. A scrawny kid is face down, eating the tiles. Crony one sits on his lower back, and holds his head down with his palm. The other crony tugs on the kid’s pants. Becks stands beside them, arms crossed, a smirk of approval creases his round face. He turns when the door claps shut behind me. His eyes trace up and down my body, the way he looks at me makes my skin crawl.
“Well, well, well,” he says, each word slower than the last. “You eva’ had one of those Christmas mornings where every single present you open ain’t what you want, and then there’s that last one, and you know from the moment you see it that it’s exactly what you’ve been waiting for?” He runs his tongue across his lips.
I cross my arms, and set my feet in a wide stance. It doesn’t matter that this kid makes my skin crawl, or that breaking this up, saving that fucking kid, is going to get my teeth knocked in. My face is a mask, a glare etched so deep into my features it may as well be carved. I’m frozen, fear glues me to the floor, but I’m not going to let Becks do this.
“Let him go.” I keep my voice even, firm, strong. I don’t let any of the fear coursing through me taint my words. My words are so loud, they echo off the tile walls.
Becks steps closer to the boy. The boy has turned his head to look at me, disgust boils up inside me, a bitter taste is so strong in my mouth that I almost gag. He can’t be older than eleven.
“And why would I eva’ do that?” he asks, and winks at me; like there’s a fucking inside joke between us.
“You’d rather have me, wouldn’t you?” I ask, I already know the answer. I take a step toward him and hold my arms out as an invitation. It’s obvious in the way his eye twitches when I say it aloud.
“Fine, let him go,” Becks waves his hand.
The boy scurries to his feet, like a mouse scrambling on a wet tile floor. His wide brown eyes lock on me, his pale face still contorted with fear. If he could speak, I know he’d say thank you. The door squeaks open, the boy disappears, and it slaps closed behind him. Becks saunters toward me, his cronies flank him. He closes in on me, when there’s less than three feet between us, when I can smell the mix of pomade, cigarettes, and hooch on him, I rush forward and punch him hard in the nose. He laughs, a small stream of blood erupts from his nostril. Victory flares inside me. I may not be able to stop him, but making him bleed still feels like a win.
His laughter dies, Becks lumbers forward and slams into me. My head cracks against the tile wall, my teeth clack together, my vision blurs. Pain grows swift and steady from the back of my skull, with each beat of my heart, it swells until it consumes me. The world goes black for just a moment. He hits me again and red spots explode behind my eyes, my cheek throbs.
“Becks, if you leave him alone your next order is on me,” Sayid says. His voice pulls me from unconsciousness.
“Next two orders,” he growls.
“Fine, two,” Sayid agrees quickly.
Becks and his cronies leave the room seconds after Sayid concedes to giving them free goods. After they leave, I feel like I can breathe again. There’s a soft touch against my head, my face, my hair, I flinch. Sayid’s hands are rough, warm. Light pours into my eyes when I open them, and I wince. Pain throbs from the back of my head and my mouth. There’s a dull ache in my stomach, like I’ve been kicked in the gut a few times.
“You alright?” he asks, as he looks me over. His hand rests against my head. Somehow, his touch numbs the pain nagging at me.
I pull myself up from the floor and nod. “I’ll live. You didn’t have to do that.” Sayid doesn’t need to sacrifice product on my account.
He shrugs like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing.
“Trying to shower alone?” he asks.
“No, there was a kid. They were attacking him,” I explain, as I try to stand. Sayid wraps his arm around my waist and helps steady me. I lean on him, all my weight against his. The tethers binding my lungs seem to unravel. My pulse evens out as Sayid walks with me toward the sink. I grunt as I sag against it.
His rough hands brush my face as he appraises me. He tilts my chin up, and for a moment his eyes meet mine. My cheeks burn. I wish his hands would drift further, I want to feel his arms around me.
“Stay here,” he says as he inches away. He watches me, like he expects me to fall over.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I try to joke, but the levity never reaches my words. My ribs ache, and I hold my side as I wait for Sayid to return. The mirror is painfully close, and I’m tempted to look over my wounds. A golf ball seems to be forming under the skin near my cheekbone. Each time my face throbs, I swear I feel it grow.
The door groans as Sayid pushes it in. He’s clutching a first aid kit.
“Where did you get that?”
He shrugs. “I’ve been known to find things from time to time.” He grins at me.
I shake my head, and smother the smile before it forms on my lips.
The first aid kit clicks as he opens it, I stare at the tiles as he rummages around inside. His face pops into view, a few inches from mine, and his eyes narrow on my wounds. I watch him chew his bottom lip. My guess, he’s trying to figure out where to start.
“What hurts the most?” he asks, his hand brushes against my jaw.
“My ribs.”
I can deal with the throbbing in my face, but my ribs give me a sharp kick every time I take a breath. Sayid reaches for my shirt, and looks at me for permission before lifting it. I give him a s
light nod. He sees me shower. Why would I care if he sees my ribs now?
His fingers dance across my rib cage, and goose bumps trail up my spine. “Here?”
Somehow, his touch bleeds into me, and it’s not pain coursing through my veins anymore. My head swims, and I look away. Confusion blurs my thoughts.
“Sorry,” he says as he pulls his hand away. “It looks like it hurts.”
He takes a few cotton balls in his hands, and the air grows sharp. “This is going to sting,” he warns less than a second before he presses the alcohol saturated cotton ball to my forehead.
I suck in a sharp breath as the alcohol seeps into my wound, its sting radiates through my face. Pain rips through my lungs, like claws twist inside them. My body doubles over automatically, and I grab for my side. I never want to breathe again if it means feeling pain like that.
“Sorry,” he says as he presses his lips into a thin line.
“Can that be it? I’ll be fine. Really,” I say as I push his hand away.
“Fine, fine,” he says as he waves his hand toward me. “I tried.”
“Thank you,” I say, as I reach out and rest my hand on his shoulder.
He nods. “Anytime.”
He just shakes his head at me, a sly smile on his face. Sayid helps me make my way out of the bathroom. Night still blankets the campus outside. I walk up the stairs first, he follows. I fall into bed, pain twists in my stomach as I fall. But it’s the springs that groan, I manage to swallow the pain down. Sayid’s bed creaks as he lies back .
“Hey, Sayid.”
“Yeah?” he asks, rolling over to look at me. When he looks at me, my eyes linger on his, and something inside me shifts. The thought of his arm around me, the comfort I felt there flashes through my mind, and I’m thankful the dark conceals the heat rising to my cheeks.
“Thanks.”
After
I follow Sayid in the dining hall line. My tray scrapes across the metal bars, I’m on autopilot. Every time my mind begins to wander, I tongue my swollen lip until I taste blood. A spoon whacks against the sneeze guard in front of me, and I jump. I look up, Brandon’s face is screwed up in annoyance.
“Hello, anybody home?” he asks as he waves the spoon in front of my face. Scrambled eggs fly off the spoon, showering the sneeze guard in yellow clumps.
How long has he been talking to me?
“Sorry,” I stammer, and hold the tray up for him to fill.
He slides a plate of pancakes and bacon onto my tray, along with a small plate of biscuits, a pile of carrots, and two apples.
“I heard you helped a kid last night in the bathroom in Madison,” he says, adding another carrot to the pile.
I shrug. “Yeah, what’s it to you?” My words are harsher than I mean for them to be.
“That was my brother, so, thanks. Most kids around here wouldn’t stand up to Becks. They’d just look the other way if a kid like Kevin was being beat up, or worse.” He nods at me, like I’ve just earned his approval. I’ve already earned extra food because I come through with Sayid, but I guess this gives me clout of my own.
I nod. “Anytime. Thanks for the extra food.”
He nods back.
Sayid and I take a seat at our usual table, smack dab in front of the dirtiest window, next to the back door. He sits across from me and I push my tray toward his automatically so he can pick what he wants off it. He eats more than three of me put together. I figure if I can’t pay him for everything he does for me, the least I can do is give him first pick of the food I don’t want to eat anyway.
“Still can’t believe you were stupid enough to do that,” he says as he takes one of my biscuits.
“Sometimes it’s worth being stupid,” I snap at him.
His eyes go wide, and he recoils. Guilt rises inside me and smothers my anger. I suck in a breath through my nose as I try to calm myself down.
“Sorry,” I say as I look at the table.
He shrugs. “It’s okay.”
I lean on my elbows, and push my fork into my pile of pancakes only to watch them spring back. “I can’t stand people getting hurt. I can’t just stand by and watch that, especially if they didn’t deserve it.”
He locks eyes with me for a moment. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone that deserved to be stuck in this place less than you.” He laughs, but I don’t.
Gord slides his tray onto the table next to Sayid and plops down. He’s already got his spoon in his mouth, half chewing on it, half talking. I look down and pick at my breakfast as Gord mumbles to Sayid.
“You know of any kids here with red curly hair?” Gord asks Sayid.
Sayid shrugs. “No, why?”
“Because you know everyone,” Gord says as he bites into a crisp strip of bacon.
“No, why do you want to know about a kid with red curly hair?” Sayid asks as he looks over at Gord.
“Could have sworn I saw a kid in the woods that I didn’t recognize, someone who isn’t an inmate. A few other kids have seen him too.”
Sayid shrugs and waves his hand, as if dismissing the idea. “Ghost stories. There’s always some story about weird kids in the woods.”
A weird feeling settles in my guts. For some reason Dominic’s face pops into my mind.
But what would Dominic be doing in the woods at Dozier?
I WALK FROM the dining hall alone, Sayid had to head to the laundry but offered to walk me, but I shooed him away. He acts like I need a constant babysitter, especially after I pissed off Becks. But I don’t. I carve my way through the orange trees, and light a cigarette as I walk to the stables.
Footsteps behind me make a smile creep across my face, Sayid must have come to walk with me after all. I turn, but my stomach bottoms out when its Melvin I find, not Sayid. The guard has about a foot on me, and even from thirty feet away, like he is right now, he’s intimidating. He’s built like a football player.
“What have you got there?” he asks as a sly smirk quirks his thin lips. His eyes narrow on the cigarette clutched between my fingers.
Sweat slicks the back of my neck and my guts turn to water. This is the one Sayid told me to avoid. He’s known for taking kids to the white house for just looking at him wrong. My mind races as I consider my options. Do I run? Do I fight him?
I shift my hand, tucking the cigarette behind me, hoping he can’t see it. There’s no way I can outrun this guy, and I sure as hell can’t fight him. But I won’t let him take me to the white house. I’ve got to get out of this somehow.
“It’s nothing, I just found it. I was going to put it out so it doesn’t start a fire,” I say, knowing there’s not enough confidence behind my words for Melvin to believe me.
He lets out a dry laugh that chills my blood. “Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?” he spits the words as he stalks forward.
Thoughts rage in my mind as fear sours the air around me. Do I risk running? He’s seen me. It’s not like I can argue it or pretend this never happened. He’s a guard. It’s my word against his. As he closes the space between us, panic sets in and sweat prickles my neck. My feet are planted into the ground, as if roots have grown there, binding me.
He’s so close, I can make out the white spit that’s collected in the corners of his mouth. It reminds me of the horses. He grabs the cigarette from my hand, and pulls it to his lips. A steady stream of smoke pours from his nose as he glares down his crooked nose at me. Melvin raises his left hand, and it moves so quickly, the only thing that tells me that he’s hit me is the pain roaring in my cheek. I fall to the ground as tears pool in my eyes, ready to fall.
Melvin thuds to the ground and rolls me onto my back. I groan as his knee connects with my ribcage, a sharp pain echoing through my injury from last night as he pins me down. Every instinct in my body tells me to throw him off, to run. But I can’t. I will for my body to move, but it won’t obey. Panic claws at me. What if he takes me to the white house?
“Please, I’m sorry,” I beg. My voice cracks
as the words come out, and shame crushes me. Tears burn my eyes, threatening to spill over. But I can’t let him see me cry.
He brings the cigarette up, pulls the collar of my shirt away from my chest, and presses the cherry to my flesh. It sizzles against my skin and I yelp in pain.
“I don’t ever want to catch you smoking out here again. Do you understand me?” He growls the words at me through his clenched teeth. He’s panting, like a rabid dog. There’s something in his eyes, a glimmer that tells me he wants to keep going. He wants to hurt me.
I nod and latch on to the pain to keep myself from breaking down. “I won’t. I promise,” I manage to choke the words out.
I expect him to hit me again. To drag me to the white house kicking and screaming. But instead, he pulls himself up, still panting from the exertion of throwing me to the ground, and stalks back into the trees.
It takes me a few minutes to haul myself out of the dirt. The wound throbs as I stand, dusting off my britches. My head spins as I orient myself. I amble toward the stables, my mind still roaring with fear. Every creak of a branch makes me nearly jump out of my skin. When I finally find reprieve in the shade of the stables, I climb up the stairs and collapse into the hayloft. I sob as the adrenaline still pooling in my blood dissipates.
I have to be more careful.
I’M NOT PROUD of how long it took me to shake the incident with Melvin. Every time I calmed myself a little, the burn would throb and remind me of how close I was to ending up in the white house. Finally, when I calm down, I spend most of my day grooming and bathing the horses. By the time the bell rings signaling time for my appointment with Lennox, my arms are raw from the constant high pressured spray from the hose. My skin tingles as the heat bites at my tender flesh. A bruise budding on my cheek makes me wince.
“Asher, it’s good to see you,” Dr. Lennox says as soon as I push the half-open door in.
His happiness fills the room, but it’s lost on me. Our last session was a failure, what is there to be happy about? I hope my mind is cooperative today. Deep down, I know it’s not likely. My mind is a dark place where nightmares dwell. It hasn’t given up a single memory. I don’t want to get my hopes up that it will offer up others.