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I roll my eyes and turn away. The nerve of some people.
“Aston…” a deep familiar voice starts to warn.
“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” I mutter.
Climbing to a stand, I take great care not to lose my new little friend or break his wings as I slip it up my sleeve, letting it rest just over my fluttering pulse-point. I make sure to tuck my thumb inside my sleeve, cinching the fabric around the heel of my palm so I don’t lose it.
Many a friend haven’t survived this trip in the past, what with having to hide my treasures in my sleeves, fists, pockets, or mouth in order to get it safely to my room.
Not that dead butterflies are considered contraband, technically—at least to my knowledge—but I figure it’s best not to draw attention to myself. I’m sure Dr. Zahiri—the center’s on-call psychiatrist, and the bane of my sheltered existence—wouldn’t look too kindly on my little hobby after all the so-called progress I’ve made.
Some people just have no appreciation for the arts.
Bruce, one of the guards who I don’t actually fully despise, waits for me with a dull look of impatience. As usual, I’m the last straggler, but I know they won’t punish me for this, even if I take my time, fluttering my fingers over weeds and bushes sprouting up from the ground. Breathing in the fresh air like it could be my last.
I only go to the pit—solitary—when I do something really, really bad. And it’s been a while since I’ve done anything that bad.
Usually, if I step out of line, or have what they call an episode, they’ll just transfer me to Ashwood instead for a quick little “reset”. Like I’m a computer or something in need of a reboot.
But the other delinquents floating in and out of here don’t know that. It would seem my reputation often precedes me—how, I have no idea, but I don’t bother trying to change their minds. Fear offers far more protection in a place like this than anything else. Especially when you’re a scrawny, skinny thing like me, standing at only five-seven with little to no muscle mass.
And it’s not like I can’t be as bad as they think I can. It’s not like their fears are totally unfounded. These days, I’d just much rather have them know what I’m capable of than risk well and truly fucking up my chances of getting out of here.
Only one more week. Then I’ll be eighteen, and it’s sayonara bitches.
“Aston. Stop dragging your feet.”
Sighing, I lift my gaze up through my lashes to find Bruce watching me with a knowing look on his rugged face. Not exactly handsome, but better-looking than some of the other guards. He’s also one of the nice ones. Gentle, even if he has to pretend to be all stern and scary when the others are around.
“Did you know Tillie has a garden at home?” I say as I stop in front of him. “She’s going to teach me how to take care of it when I move in with her.”
His brows do a weird little dance and he shakes his head. “I’m sure it’ll be great. Let’s go.”
Not waiting for a response, he steps to the side, gesturing for me to walk in ahead of him.
All the guards call me by my first name, and it’s not because I’ve blown almost half of them. It’s just less of a mouthful than St. James, I suppose.
I’ve also been here longer than most of the others, so we’re practically family. A kinky one, but a family nonetheless.
Plus, at least Aston is my real name. St. James was only given to me because that was the name of the church where I was dumped as a baby. In nothing more than the blanket embroidered with my name and a bright red rosary placed on top of my chest, I became known as Aston St. James, ward of the state of Indiana.
(No, the irony doesn’t escape me.)
Whistles and stomping greet my ear when we pass through the rec room. The television is on, playing some football game that seems to have nearly my entire B-Wing cohort in a tizzy.
“Hey, Ass-ton,” someone yells out, taking great care to make sure everyone hears the way he emphasizes my name. I glance over to find it’s none other than Ty, my newest arch-nemesis. Why am I not surprised?
He cackles as if what he said is the most original thing since sliced bread.
Puh-lease.
Bruce squeezes my shoulder in one of his big meaty hands, giving me a little shove to keep going. A silent warning to ignore the dickhead.
He knows Ty’s been testing me for weeks now, all because he overheard I’m not only aging out soon, but because I’ll be moving in with my caseworker. One who just happens to be his as well, along with eight other lucky ingrates currently glaring at me from various spots around the crowded room.
Sucks to suck, boys.
As if summoned, a loud female voice rings out from the doorway just ahead of me, silencing the room in a heartbeat. “That’s enough, Tyberius.”
