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)
That never works for long. My mind doesn’t have to wander far to drag me back to the long nights and the screaming and crying and begging.
The punishments. There were always so many punishments. That shit never ended. None of us could ever do anything right.
It was designed that way. Tough love is what he called it when my father let them take me. I glance back at him and take a sip. He didn’t know.
Sit up straighter. Don’t look at them, look at me. What rule did you break? You broke it again. Straighter. You need to learn. You’re here to learn. Your parents want you to learn. That’s why they sent you here. So you’d learn. You’re not that fucking dumb. Act right! You’re such a fucking failure. You’re never going back at this rate. They’ll keep you here. Better for you here than out there where you’re always hurting people. Why do you hurt them? You hate them, don’t you? Don’t you?
The screams echo in my head.
If you hear that kind of thing often enough, it starts to sound true. My arms would burn from lifting them up and up and up while we did jumping jacks until your body couldn’t take any more. My feet hurt. Once I had a swollen ankle from when one of the teachers tackled me—damn thing was probably sprained—but I still had to do jumping jacks. Ankle’s never been the same since. The pain never really went away.
Maybe it did, but I still feel it.
Haley. I should think about Haley. I’ll never forget the rest of that shit, but I can choose to concentrate on Haley.
My memory of her is like my phone. Hundreds of images locked away even though I know they’re there.
Sometimes she pauses, and something about the way she goes still makes me think she can feel me watching.
I like the thought of her feeling my eyes on her. It’s like she saw me.
No one else really did. They looked right through me.
When her bedroom light is on, it’s like a one-way mirror. She can’t see me watching her, but I can see her. The curve of her neck. The way the fabric slides off her body when she takes her shirt off, smooth and deliberate. How she stretches her arms over her head, so beautiful, so perfect.
And then, when the light goes off, I know she’s crawling into bed and the soft sheets are touching even softer skin and she’s warming up the blankets with her body.
Maybe she still thinks about me watching when we weren’t supposed to. She was the one rule I broke. One more reason I was convinced I’d die in that place. Maybe she touches herself, thinking about me watching. Maybe it turns her on to know I’m out there in the dark on the other side of the glass, all these years later.
My dad sighs and I’m snapped out of my thoughts. He picks up his can of beer from the side table, drinks, and sets it back down.
I forgot my own beer. The condensation from the can has soaked into the ragged coaster below it. I pick it up and take a swig and pretend I wasn’t thinking about her … and that place. The fan on the ceiling spins. It seems a little louder for a second, then gets quiet again.
The game switches to a commercial. It’s definitely a rerun. We’ve probably sat here watching it before.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my dad glance at me.
“You seem out of it,” he says, tone gruff and casual.
I shuffle on the sofa and raise my eyebrows at him.
“Do I?” I question and play it off.
My dad shrugs, then turns to the TV again. His gaze is unfocused, more lost in thought than in the game. Or I guess the commercial for some weight-loss pill.
“You weren’t here last night. Thought you were staying over.” He talks without looking at me. His tone nonchalant but I know him too well.
“I was.” The commercial changes. “Went to bed early.”
“Oh. Guess I didn’t hear you.” My dad picks up his beer again, but sets it back down without drinking.
Adrenaline rushes through me but I stay still. Don’t ask questions Dad.
Thoughts of last night try to trickle in and instead I focus on anything else. The living room is warm from the sun. It was never warm at that place, no matter how bright it was.
It was never warm until the summer came, and then it was too hot. The teachers had personal air-conditioning units and box fans that stayed on them, but we didn’t have anything. During those few summer months it was like being baked alive in an oven. The concrete floors held all the heat in.
The teachers believed in keeping it cold until they believed in burning us to death. Never a middle ground. We had to earn comfort. It was a privilege.