Maybe I’m obsessed with numbers because they always tell a story and unlike people, they never lie.
Here’s my story in a nutshell:
Seventeen—the number of years I’ve existed. In my case, lived is too strong a word.
One—the number of boys I’ve dated.
Two—the number of friends I’ve made and lost since my incarceration.
Two—the number of lives I’ll live. The number of lives we’ll all live.
Our Firstlife, then our Everlife.
Two—the number of choices I have for my eternal future.
(1) Do as my parents command or (2) suffer.
I’ve chosen to suffer.
I use the blood to create another mark on the stones. Satisfied, I head to the “bathroom.” There are no doors to provide even a modicum of privacy, just a small, open shower stall next to a toilet. For our safety, we’re told. For the amusement of others, I suspect. All cells are monitored 24/7, which means at any given time during any given day, staff members are allowed and even encouraged to watch live camera feed.
Dr. Vans, the head of the asylum, likes to taunt us. I see and know everything.
A good portion of teachers scold us. Time waster!
Orderlies belittle us. Put on a little weight, haven’t we?
Most of the guards leer at us. They hail from all over the world, and though their language varies, their sentiment is always the same. You are begging for it and one day I’ll give it.
Just some of the many perks offered chez Prynne.
Not everyone is horrible, I admit. A small handful even strive to keep the others from going too far. But it’s no secret every staff member is paid to make us hate our stay, to make us want to leave more than anything. Because, the more we want to leave, the more likely we are to do whatever our parents sent us here to do.
My friend Marlowe dared to pawn her mother’s jewelry to buy groceries, and she needed help with her “kleptomania.” My friend Clay, a drug addict, needed to get clean.
The institution failed them both. A few months ago, Marlowe killed herself, and Clay... I don’t know what happened to him. He planned an escape, and I haven’t heard from him since.
I miss them both. Every. Single. Day.
I begged Clay not to risk a breakout. I tried to leave once, and I had help. My boyfriend, James, a guard high on the totem, arranged for cameras to be shut down, certain doors to be unlocked and other guards to sleep on the job. Still I proved unsuccessful.
For his efforts, James was shot in the head. While I watched.
Hot tears well in my eyes and trickle down my cheeks as I slowly strip out of my jumpsuit. Every motion comes with another blast of agony. When finally I’m naked, I step under a tepid spray of water. Modesty has long since been beaten out of me—literally!—but I wash as fast as I can. We’re given a small ration of water a day. If we run out, we run out. Too bad, so sad. Something we’re never given? Razors. I keep my legs and underarms smooth with threads I’ve pulled from old uniforms. I already feel like an animal; there’s no reason to resemble one, too.
Not that a well-groomed appearance matters. While we’re allowed to socialize with the opposite sex during mealtimes, I’d rather dig my heart out of my chest with a rusty spoon than date again. Yes, the rewards are tremendous, but the risks are more so. When everything comes crashing down—and it will—I’ll be shattered into a million pieces. I’ll have to rebuild. Again.
I should have resisted James’s pursuit of me, but I’d been at a low point, desperate for any show of affection. He’d risked his job every time he’d disabled the cameras to sneak inside my room. He snuck in so many times, in fact, his memory still lives here. Every night when I climb into my twin-size bed, I’m reminded of the way he teased me out of my initial shyness. Of the way he cleaned my wounds whenever I was hurt. Of the way he held me in his arms, offering comfort and kisses. He’d wanted to do more. I hadn’t. Not here. Not with a potential audience.
Forget the past. Concentrate on the present. Right.
I shut off the water and towel dry as best I can. I step into a clean, peed-in-the-snow-yellow jumpsuit, but only manage to bring the material to my waist, my arms refusing to work properly, my shoulder muscles giving up.