Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 46398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 232(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 232(@200wpm)___ 186(@250wpm)___ 155(@300wpm)
Like when we had to keep going… although we knew what was happening to her.
During that hour, I didn’t imagine the sounds I heard coming from the office down the hall—the crack of a belt, and anguished cries. I’ll hear those cries for the rest of my life. There’s no doubt in my mind.
It was that girl. That was her voice. She was still human, too. That was her problem.
We’re not allowed to be human here. Our parents send us here to become well-trained animals.
My thoughts fly back to her trying to help. Trying to save someone she doesn’t know. Hell we’re not even allowed to know each other’s names. Maybe from outside of here… the thought hits me.
Did she know him? Is that why she did something so reckless?
He didn’t seem to know her.
Either way, he’ll spend tonight being tortured in a room alone to teach him a lesson.
What lesson?
Don’t know. I don’t think there’s any lesson to be learned at all. They just want to break us so they can send us back to our parents as shells of ourselves. Shells are easier to deal with than a full person, I guess. It’s easier to control a person who doesn’t have any interest in living.
I don’t want to live either. I would rather die than be here.
But that girl’s eyes—
The way she still cared. I don’t want them to take that away from her.
Her eyes make me want to stay alive. They remind me that there is a world out there. A world where people like that girl can come from. She’s in hell with the rest of us now.
I’ve lost track of how many days I’ve been here. I only know that every time I fuck up, I’m staying for longer. That’s what they always say. I’m adding punishments. I’m adding strikes. I’m adding more days and weeks and months. The only way out is to prove that I’ve learned. I’ve given that a try before. We all have. It never seems to work.
Some of the guys leave eventually. When they behave so well they’re allowed to talk to their parents. Maybe their parents come to their senses. Maybe they finally manage to convince their parents of what’s happening here.
I don’t know. It’s against the rules to tell our parents anything about this place when we are granted the privilege of calling them. When I first got here, I was so mad that I didn’t talk to him even when I was finally allowed. That was months after they dragged me through the front doors.
I figured if he’d sent me to this place, he’d never believe me about what it was like. I still don’t think he’ll ever try to get me out of here. He probably forgot all about me. It’s been so long that he has to figure I’m a lost cause.
I finish washing my hands and shake them dry. There’s no paper towel in here. No hand dryer, either. There used to be a hand dryer at one point, but all that’s left of it is a rectangular dent in the wall where it used to be. Somebody ripped it off the wall before I got here.
I wonder what that was like. I wonder how much they paid for it. More than it was worth. Nothing in this place is worth anything.
“Finally,” the staff member grunts. It’s not like I took extra time at the urinal. I ignore him. I keep my back straight and shoulders up like they tell us. I walk on the barely seen painted line on the floor. It’s the only line we’re allowed to walk on. “Come on.”
I follow him back down the hall to the room where we sleep—rows of beds, too close together, eight of us in a room. My bed is on the far side of the room. There are no windows in this cell. Thought it was illegal to put this many people in a room without any windows. Just more proof we’re not people at all.
They tell us enough. We act like animals. So we’re treated like animals. We did this to ourselves.
I lie back down in my bed, the staff member breathing down my neck until I’m flat on my back. Laying perfectly straight like we’re supposed to do. Palms up.
He stalks away, and I close my eyes. The bed is hell, too. A thin mattress with springs poking into me. I only have a sheet on top of the mattress. I haven’t earned a blanket and probably never will. No pillow, either. I had one of those for about a week once. I can’t remember how long ago that was. I can’t remember what I did to lose it either.
So I lay my head on the wrinkled sheet over the squeaky plastic mattress cover and zone out. There are always people watching us—footsteps moving past the door, light shining in. I keep seeing flashlights shining in.