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He, too, leaves without another word, and I can't say that I miss his company.
Good riddance as far as I am concerned.
We sit there a long time, the weirdo and me, long after my food goes cold and a storm rolls in, dropping snow and turning the world outside the tall windows to a blinding white. Then we continue to sit there, his hand still atop my knee, me slowly forcing one bite after another down until the entire dining hall clears, the guards leave, and the doors to the kitchen shutter.
Finally, I finish my plate, but then the tyrant makes me sit there, feeling it digest. I'm gross and bloated, and somewhere in the creases of my brain is my mother oinking at me.
As we sit there, my stalker takes a lighter, a solid black metal Zippo, and rolls it across his knuckles, back and forth. He makes it look easy, like he's flipping a quarter and not the bulky metal box. He looks content as he watches it, but I spot the undercurrent there. I'm feeling a lot less lightheaded since I ate, and I can see it now.
It's not contentment that's plastered on his face as he watches the lighter.
It's a lid, his complete and utter control over boiling rage.
How angry is he exactly? And why do I get the feeling I never want to be on the receiving end of that anger?
I'm getting really tired of sitting here, but I also have zero doubt the freak will use the lighter on me if he deems it necessary. That's the first rule in a new boarding school: do not escalate. Now normally I only abide by it about fifty percent of the time, but then again, this place is disturbing as fuck and so is my late-afternoon lunch companion, so I'm not inclined to put it to the test.
Although I'd love to take my tray and slam it upside his face, I've never been stupid about fights, which is thanks to growing up in private schools, I guess. Once you get your ass beat enough times, you learn to be smart about who you pick a fight with.
And this guy is what?
Six-foot-one? Six-foot-two? With at least forty or fifty pounds of muscle on me?
I'd have to be an actual moron to take those odds.
So I sit there, and he sits beside me, rolling the lighter back and forth across his knuckles until he abruptly stops, flips the lid, rolls the wheel, and ignites the flame. Everything in him goes abruptly still, and it's crazy to watch as his fucking pyromania takes over. He's dived in, captivated by the pretty colors, the tiniest bit of heat, and the tiny orange and yellow flame flickering in front of him.
Slowly, it may be minutes later, he tears his eyes away from the flame and brings the lighter between us.
"Don't attempt to purge," he tells me, "or I'll watch you burn, baby girl."
I swallow hard.
"Why do you care?" I ask him.
He chuckles wryly, and I get the feeling that he doesn't actually want to give a fuck about me. Instead of the truth, whatever that may be, he says simply, "Because you're my Firefly."
Then he snuffs the flame out with his thumb, shuts the lighter, grabs the back of my head, reels me close to him, and says, "See you tomorrow, baby girl."
A moment later, he stands and walks away. My scalp still tingles from his touch as I tread the empty halls up to my dorm until I shut myself inside my room. Once I'm in there, I go straight into my bathroom, where the creep can't see me, and I shove my fingers down my throat.
As I stare at the bottom of the porcelain bowl, not a damned thing comes up.
6
GABE
Ilay in my bed, annoyingly awake and wondering what my little Firefly is doing. The radiator clicks and pops beneath the windowsill as snow falls outside. It's been falling for hours, ever since I made my Firefly sit with me at lunch. It's got to be up to a couple of feet by now, maybe more.
New Year's Day will be here in a few short weeks, and families who pretend to care will all come to visit the good boys and girls of Chryseum for the holiday. It'll be an all-day affair, and Headmistress Graves will pull out the big-ticket items to impress them.
She'll instruct the kitchen staff to serve fresh meat with every meal and handmade desserts, so she can pretend like it's an everyday occurrence.
She'll have the school banners hung in the halls, showcasing the alternating colors of dark green and black, and she'll make sure the guards don't allow anyone to rip them down and choke themselves or someone else with the fabric.
Most importantly, she'll instruct all staff members—guards, teachers, and all medical personnel—to be on their best behavior. They won't be allowed to fuck off when we ask for help, especially if we do it in front of our parents.
A senior last year asked Headmistress to help him apply to college. Let me tell you, her face was priceless. Of course, she agreed, and from what I heard, she actually helped him too, but I guarantee she hated every minute of it. That's the thing about putting all the crazies together. By the time one of us comes here, our parents have heard everything, and they either don't believe us or don't care when we ask for help. If a mentally unwell person claims they are mistreated, are they actually mistreated, or is their mind tricking them into thinking they are? Worse yet, are they lying to fool you into doing what they want?
