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Roll and click, then on.
Roll and click. On.
Roll and click.On.
Roll and click.On.
Over and over again.
It's the only thing keeping me sane at the moment. The letters are bad today, worse than normal. I couldn't even get through the first paragraph of a book I'm trying to read. It makes me feel inadequate, stupid, and worthless. I pulled out all the tricks. Going line-by-line with a ruler, reading aloud, sounding out each letter after the next, and none of them worked.
My father would laugh and ask why I even bothered to try. No one can fuck you up as well as your parents.
I'm hungry, and I'm feeling antsy because I haven't seen my Firefly in a few days. Well, I've seen her, but I haven't been able to get her alone. There are no classes on weekends, and the headmistress has her in the new and improved special nutrition program for the students with eating disorders. Now from what I've seen and heard in the hallways, all of the food fighters and rexies take their meds together and share their meals together.
At least today, I'll see her again in class.
She can't avoid me there, and it doesn't matter if she screams bloody murder because they won't let her go back to her room and I know it. Not unless she's literally going to bleed to death if she doesn't, and I doubt she has the stomach for that kind of gore.
On and off, on and off, I roll the wheel and press the button, igniting the lighter again and again. It calms my nerves a little and quiets the noise, all of the voices from the students in the hall, the cackling of a guard as he shares a joke with his buddy, and most of all, my father's fucking words from this morning.
He was a prick. He's always a prick, but he cut deeper than normal today. Talking to him on a good day pisses me off, but on days like today, when I spent much of the early morning disgusted with myself as everything blended together on the paper, talking to him makes me boil.
He started off by asking me if I'd learned to read yet.
I kept my mouth shut and pretended like his barb didn't sting when it landed.
What else was I supposed to do?
I hate feeling fucking powerless, but I am, compared to him, at least. When you're powerless, you're forced to be patient if you want revenge. Otherwise, the owner of the magnifying glass fries your tiny ant ass before you can come up with a plan, so I'm patient, even when it feels like being patient is going to make me explode.
If he wanted to, my father could send me to one of the other mental institutions, the ones for the sickos who like children a little too much or who think that God told them to drown their babies. He could lock me up in one of those vile pits and throw away the key. He'd probably go after conservatorship too and tie me to him and whatever hellhole he put me in for life. At least once I get out of this slice of hell, I can disappear. Iwilldisappear, and he won't be able to control me anymore.
I've been told my entire life that I am unworthy.
By my father, my mother, my doctors, and my teachers.
I'm dyslexic and, as if that wasn't bad enough, I had a speech impediment that took years to break.
I'm stupid according to my father and a troubled man according to mother.
The fires help control negative thoughts and keep them at bay. They help me grin and bear it, just like I did with the new psychiatrist this past Friday, a middle-aged bald fuck with the personality of a shoe. After the last one, Dr. Cross, got shanked to death in his office, I doubt the position was very popular, but you would think that they would at least try to hire someone who can actually talk to people. I can't honestly remember if he said an entire word during our hour-long session together. He just sort of stared and nodded occasionally. On second thought, I'm pretty sure he had headphones in, tuning me out.
Whatever, I think I fooled him at least, so there will be no more talk about going back to weekly sessions like the old doctor used to require before he choked to death on his own blood. Well, that's how I hear he went out at least.
I told the new brain doc that I think of calm thoughts and happy places—the beach at sunrise, clouds in the sky, all that pretty shit they like to hear—to control the urges. I told him I haven't been obsessed over anyone or anything in a long while, though that's a blatant lie. But if there's no obsession, then there's no compulsion and no necessary repression.
I wish I could fool my father as easily as I fool these people. They don't have to believe that I'm totally cured. They just have to believe that I'm not going to light the place on fire with them inside of it. I think I've managed to convince the new doctor of that, at least. Maybe not the head honcho—Dr. Boucher aka the Butcher—but I only have to see his ass if I get carted off the hole. I don't plan on going to the hole, not with my Firely to entertain me.
Now I've worked up an appetite, thinking about my Firefly.
Sure, maybe I'm swapping one bad habit for another, but I'll take it if it means igniting something inside of her instead.
Kill's always said I have a thing for lost causes, which is laughable because that fucker is the king of lost lambs. He's all about the religious crackpots. I don't mean the ones that just believe in a higher power. I mean the girls who come here completely broken, fucked up, and discarded but still manage to have faith, probably because faith is the only thing holding their popsicle-stick minds together. They are the ones that sink to their knees in front of the doors and beg for mercy. They talk in tongues and bow their heads before every meal. They go to the chapel and pray on their knees until they pass out. Then they self-flagellate in their rooms, whipping and cutting themselves to atone for their sins. Personally, I find it laughable. I don't know if there is a God, but I know he must be one sick bastard if they go through all of that, and he still won't save them from Killian.
He's especially fond of the virgins. They aren't my thing, but more power to him, I guess. I've got no idea what his thought process is there—maybe it's the blood that gets his dick hard—but his exploits are talked about for days. Not because he brags. He doesn't give a shit what any of the people around here think of him, but because normally, it turns ugly and public very fast. The last time he took a v-card—well, the last I know of, at least—he asked the girl after if she thought she'd still get into heaven. Then he left and walked to the dining room like he didn't just upend her entire existence. She came into the dining room, screaming about it, ranting, raving, and still naked from the waist down. She called him a demon. Then she tried to stab him with a crucifix like he was a vampire.
She got tackled before she got too close, though Kill would've probably enjoyed the struggle. Then she was carted off to the hole and transferred by her ultra-devout parents a week after. If that ain't some fucked-up religious shit right there, I don't know what is.
