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If I asked them to, my wannabe pyromaniacs would read every word aloud to me, all of them always so eager to please, but that shit gets old fast. At first, when I arrived at Chryseum on the cusp of my thirteenth birthday, friendless, and hating my entire miserable existence, it felt powerful, but not anymore. Now having them follow me around feels like an obligation.
At least my Firefly isn't so eager to please. I don't think she even likes me, but then again, it's nice to not be liked. Saint, the fucker, always says that we crave the same things, Kill, him, and me. I asked him what that was one time, and he saidan end to the boredom. Only I'm not bored, though, not most days, but I am always searching for something that will quiet the noise and give me the same high that the fire does every time I light up. I want it to make me feel like I'm glowing from the inside out. I think my Firefly might do just that.
I leave the book and the ruler on my desk and walk to the bathroom. I shut the door and spin the knob on the shower, turning it on. I normally need to think of flames and fire to get going, but as I step in the water and begin to stroke my dick, I think of her, my little Firefly. With my cigarette still dangling from my lips, I imagine her kneeling before me, naked, bound, her skin freshly sizzled, and I come, shooting jets onto the wall, one after the other.
I hope on the other side of campus, my Firefly is doing the same.
7
AVERY
Bang, bang, bang!sounds before the light comes on, bright and blinding me. A second later, my thin itchy blanket is yanked off of me, and I'm jerked out of bed by a guard, landing on the hard floor like a baby giraffe trying to find its footing. At least the man keeps me upright as I try to figure out what's happening. I blink rapidly, trying to make my eyes adjust to the bright light, as he looks me up and down. His gaze lingers a second too long on my bare thighs and white panties, exposed beneath the hem of my Academy sweatshirt. I don't like that look. It reminds me too much of other looks by older men at other schools. If he tries anything, I'm going for his eyes first.
The guard's upper lip curls, exposing yellowing teeth, before his cruel gaze raises to mine again.
"Get dressed!" he barks at me, his fingers squeezing my elbow tightly. Despite his words, he hasn't let me go yet, and his fingers dig deep into my flesh, certain to leave a bruise. "The headmistress wants to see you."
At this hour?I want to say, but I don't.
I know better than that.
It's the number one rule, after all, or mine at least.
Do. Not. Escalate.
Well, don't escalate with a slimy guy who could overpower you in three seconds flat while the two of you are together in your bedroom.
I've been here before with other private schools. All the reformatory academies do the shit they don't want anyone to know about in the dark hours, when no one's awake to hear you cry and yell for help. It's not even time for roll call yet when the guard finally lets me go. He doesn't leave my room, though, as I walk over to the closet, grab my clothes, and start to change. I close one of the closet doors as best I can, shielding myself from the guard. I dress quickly before shoving my feet into my Mary Janes. Then I walk out into the hallway, and the guard follows me.
The doors to the other rooms are still closed, and my shoes click on the hard stone floor as we walk down the hall to take the spiral steps down the tower to the first floor. Another guard joins us once we exit the stairs, and now there are two of them, which seems like overkill. I'm not exactly known for my violent tendencies, well, unless being harmful to myself counts. I haven't even gotten into a fight at Chryseum yet, which has to be a new personal record.
I learned my lesson the last time after the queen bee at my old school called me a bitch, and I gave her a knockout punch that hurt my knuckles for weeks after. I'm pretty sure the bone is still bruised or something because I swear it still hurts every time it rains.
I'm not looking for a fight this morning, but the two guards together on either side of me make me nervous, especially afterthe incident, as my father calls it, a year before.The incidentinvolves the one and only time my father actually removed me from a school for issues not related to my eating disorder. To no one's surprise, even allegedly devout men believe in sexual assault every now and again, and it was hard to dispute my allegation when they found my teeth marks on his dick.
So, as we walk down the hall, I'm making plans and thinking of ways to get away from these fuckers should it all go sideways. We walk through the maze of interconnected hallways, but my mind is running through scenarios and deciding what organ I need to hit first if they try something. My psychiatrist would call it a trauma-induced coping mechanism. My father would be horrified. And my mother, despite all the evidence, would refuse to believe me and say it's a ploy to come home because fat girls don't get assaulted.
A question whittles at my temple as we continue into the heart of the building. It drills in deep and causes a hole I want to ignore, but can't. That question asks why I haven't been making escape plans to get away from the creep.
I could've tried harder at lunch. I could have snatched the lighter and threatened him with it instead. I could have clawed at his eyeballs and gone feral and tried to rip out his tongue. I could have bit him, just like I did the man who assaulted me before. But I didn't.
Why?
I'd blame it on the fact that he already had the chance to assault me and didn't do anything, well, except smoke a cigarette in my face. A little voice on my shoulder, though, whispers that maybe that's not the truth. Maybe it's because, despite his demon eyes, force-feeding fetish, and threats to set me on fire, I feel wanted when I'm with him.
Feeling wanted is scary, though. Because what does it destroy inside of you when you aren't wanted anymore? Gabe makes me feel worthy, like I'm more than my muscle-to-fat ratio and how many ribs I can count when I look at myself in the mirror. And that's terrifying.
There's a difference, I think, between want and desire. The man who assaulted me desired physical pleasure from using my body. Gabe wants me, though. He asked my name. He saved me from the asshole kicking down the bathroom stalls. He fed me, I think, in a fucked-up attempt to help me. He wants me, all of me.
Maybe this place is getting to me, though, because I'm starting to sound like the psychiatrists and therapists I can't stand. And why do I care if the creep wants me? I don'twant him.
Right?
Outside the building, wintry wind whispers, curling around the tall turrets and parapets. I can feel it, cold leaking inside through the ancient windows that we pass, cutting through the glass and decorative iron. The Academy is scary on a bright sunny day, but right now when nightfall still lays on the horizon and dusk has yet to wake, it is downright disturbing. Shadows cling to the walls and climb to the wooden ribs arched across the ceiling. Whispers sound in the quiet halls, and I don't know if it's ghosts of those who are long gone or those still here, locked in the place the students all seem to fear.
Isolation, the hole, solitary confinement, the place Headmistress warned me about time and time again, where they will do whatever it takes to produce results.
All the students are afraid of it. All except Gabe, that is. The freak doesn't seem to fear anything, and that might be the most disturbing thing about him. If he were afraid, he'd stay in line and mind his own business. He wouldn't follow me to the bathroom, try to force-feed me, or threaten to light me on fire.
