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It wasn't my fault.
Whatever happened, it wasn't my fault.
I was no more at fault than Chris for being born a girl.
This was on them, on the monsters wearing the skin of men, thinking they could parade among us, use us, abuse us with their twisted urges.
This was their fault.
There was a telltale burning at the backs of my eyes, making me press the lids closed tight, forcing the tears back, refusing to let them come - even if they were for her and what she was going through - refusing to let the evidence of them show on my face.
They could have my rage, my disgust, my marrow-deep hatred.
And nothing, nothing else.
That was all they deserved.
Righteous anger.
Indignation.
And any bit of pain I could inflict upon them.
My head lifted as my arms released my legs, my hands raising, curling into fists, showing me the evidence of some small bit of hurt I had brought upon him. He had my scratches down his face.
Maybe his buddies would laugh.
But he had to have a life.
Outside of them.
Outside of these walls.
Around normal people.
People who would see them and know there was only one explanation for them, people who would see him for the bottom-feeder he was.
A whimpering drew my attention away from my own hands, away from the knowledge of what they were capable of if I kept my wits about me, if I acted calmly, if I utilized the years of training I'd had.
"What's your name?" I heard myself ask, feeling guilty for having connected with Chris and not her, knowing we were all in this together, no matter what ways we found to cope.
"Mary," she answered as she held her knees, rocking on her side.
"I'm Ferryn," I told her, feeling a stab of pity for the sweat over her body, the pained look in her eyes.
I knew about drugs.
First, because of school.
Because of the assemblies condemning them, sure, but also because at least a dozen of kids in my grade and up were already heavy into heroin.
A generation of kids with no hope of a fair future, Uncle Renny had said once, shaking his head. Not surprised they look for an escape.
And they did.
Binge drinking.
Burning out.
Shooting poison into their veins.
Last year, a girl had OD'd on the floor of the senior prom.
She hadn't made it either.
Seventeen and dead.
I shared my father's bone-deep distaste for drugs, for what they did to people who had just been looking for a way out of pain - emotional or physical.
"Are you okay?" I asked, knowing it was a stupid question, that no one could actually be okay in this situation, let alone detoxing in this situation.
"Wish I had something in my system to throw up," she whimpered as she clutched her stomach. "The cramps are the worst."
"I'm sorry they did this to you," I told her, meaning it, though knowing how hollow the words sounded.
"They didn't do this. Not this anyway," she said, shaking her head, refusing to make eye-contact. "Been using since I was your age," she added, maybe finding that talking to me helped distract from the pain in her body. "Turned tricks before I could vote. One night, got so high I don't remember being picked up, just waking up here the next day."
"That's horrible."
"Life is horrible."
I couldn't agree with that, so I stayed silent.
My life wasn't horrible.
And I suddenly felt incredibly guilty for every moment I may have made my parents think I felt that way, every useless rebellion, every fight, every time I thought anything less than loving about them.
I had been a clueless, selfish girl, taking my good luck for granted.
"You're like her," Mary said a moment later.
"I'm sorry?"
"Like the other girl with the doe eyes," she told me. I figured, meaning Chris. "Fresh as snow."
"I guess," I agreed, looking away, oddly feeling almost embarrassed about the fact.
"Honey, if you have to guess, you're lily white," she informed me, voice firm. "Worse for girls like you," she added. "Shouldn't happen like that. The first time. But who am I to talk anyway? Shouldn't be your Uncle Jim when you're eight years old either."
Oh, God.
If possible, this bruised, battered, unrecognizable thing I called a heart inside my chest shrank smaller still, turned darker shades of black and blue.
So, so much wickedness in the world, so much human sickness, so many innocent victims.
"Anyway, if they offer it, take it," she went on as I moved away from the toilet, needing some distance, some space to put myself back together.
"Take what?" I asked as the chain slowed my pace, the metal slicing into my bare skin as I knew it inevitably would.
"The drugs. If they offer 'em, take 'em. They'll make it all easier to bear."
Again, unable to agree, I said nothing.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe they would make it easier.
But maybe I didn't want it easier.
