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“I’m okay, Miller. Look at me.” I look up at him and wave at myself. “I just won a football game.”
“I know,” he whispers. He presses his lips flat as one tears drip down his cheeks. He rubs a hand into his hair. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. Don’t be sorry. It’s probably sad if it’s a new story to you. You should be happy you can feel sad.”
I look back down as he breathes deep and heavy. I think of him on his Snapchat this summer. Funny, charming Josh Miller. I feel bad for fucking up that chill vibe. Even if it only lasts an hour, and afterward he doesn’t want to see me again, I’ll still feel bad for telling him this terrible shit.
“I was locked up in my room for three days. The next time he—Paul—came in, I was really hungry. I was hangry, and he said I’d have to tell him I was sorry for what I said—the shit I said about them drugging Riley. That the program was fucked and twisted, and abusing minors. And Miller…” My voice is a whispered rasp as I lift my eyes to his. “I couldn’t.” Tears are blurring my eyes again as I tell him, “I don’t even know why. Stubbornness? Paul went on this tirade about how my main sin was wrath—the one that really had me gripped.
“He said homophobic shit, and he said shit about Riley. Shit that made me think that maybe he’d been messing with her. So I went at him. A stupid move. Paul called for backup, and someone shot me up with something. And I woke up in the closet.” Deep breath. “The supply one in my room, where they kept all the medical supplies,” I whisper. “The thing didn’t have a doorknob on the inside. It was small, like smaller than a handicapped stall in a bathroom. There were machines in there. Like a cart, this IV machine thing. Needles. Bandages. There was some saline in there, bags of saline. And a sheet. And I would lie on the sheet.”
Tears are sliding down my cheeks, and I don’t like it. But I can’t help it. And I can’t look at him. “For the first stretch of time, I was scared about how dark it was, and scared of being trapped. I would go fucking insane, trying to get out. I thought I could break the door down. But I couldn’t.”
God, the way my heart’s racing. Kind of amazing, PTSD.
“Paul was fucked up. Smart, though. He made me wait four days for food, two days for water, and he had it brought by someone else. Security, I guess they were. They would shock me first…but with a Taser.” I can feel my body shaking, so I try to breathe deep. “And then they’d leave the food or water,” I add thinly. “Paul waited a while to come in. When he did, he would have the shock stick they used. It was milder than a Taser. But he’d press it to your skin, and that would burn.”
I shut my eyes and try not to get really crying.
“Angel—“
“I asked for a light. And so he put a red light in there. Red like hell. He told me if I wrote ‘I have no more wrath’ over and over, until it filled the walls, then I could get out.” I shake my head. “But I didn’t even try. I laid down, and I tried to make myself not care what happened to me. The less they brought food and water, it was easier for me to zone out. One day—” I swallow hard, because this is hard to say. “One day, I realized I couldn’t stand up. Like my legs just…didn’t work. They were too weak and shaky.”
He moves closer to me, rubbing his hand over my knee. Our eyes lock, and I can feel this…something move between us. It’s like a little burst of warmth, and it makes me feel steadier. I try to give him a smile, but my mouth just trembles.
“You would have thought I’d have done more…or different stuff. But I thought I would die in there. It had been weeks, I think…by that point. So I stopped eating food,” I say in a flat whisper. His hand feels so solid on my knee. I tell myself to focus on that. Focus that we’re here, in this room and not that one.
“I guess it was like a hunger strike. I was so weak, I couldn’t really drink, so Paul sent nurses in to start an IV. They set up a whole thing in there. This whole…torture chamber with me. And I couldn’t move by then. My eyes were blurry and I didn’t understand time. I hated the dark. And I hated the red light. I prayed so hard my mom would come…or someone. But they didn’t.” I breathe deeply, hating that I’m crying.
