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And it shouldn't matter that he looks at me like I'm the center of his solar system or that he hangs on every word I say or that he actually seems to care about me in his own deluded way.
He's wicked and vile and . . . makes me feel worthy of a king.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I can't want him.
I will not allow myself to want him!
This shit is just this fucked-up place messing with my head.
Two days ago, I had another session with the headmistress, and she seems determined to make this work. I guess my dad is paying her a lot of money to make it work. Well, I know he is because during our last session, she told me so.
Your father has promised the Academy a substantial donation should we fix you.
We have every intention of fixing you, Ms. Bardot.
We will not go easy on you like your previous institutions.
What-the-fuck-ever.
She can eat a dick too as far as I'm concerned. None of my previous rehabilitation programs or reformatory schools were easy. I've had over a thousand hours of cognitive-behavioral therapy. I've talked about my upbringing and my parents for hours until my voice cracks from use. Even the poshest of the places I've gone to always made me work for it. Group sessions, individual cognitive-behavioral therapy, medications, hospitalizations, intensive inpatient rehabilitation programs, if you can name it, I've almost certainly tried it. Now did any of them have a pyromaniac who threatened to set me on fire if I didn't eat all of my dinner? Well, no. No, they did not. But no one's gone easy on me my entire life, and this place is just a new swirl in my personal shit sundae.
Headmistress wasn't exactly happy at my last weigh-in with her, and the nurse wasn't happy this morning, which makes me very happy. God knows what my mother's probably saying about me. I don't know if Headmistress Graves talks to her after every check-in like she does my father, but even if she doesn't, my father's probably telling her everything in a wayward belief that she cares.
She's probably telling him some tried-and-true favorites like,It's a cry for attention, Michael!andIt's not my fault she couldn't handle the pressure!My father, the bastard, is probably letting her do it too. He might've said one thing to her, something likeShe's our daughter, Megan! She needs help!but he won't ever come out and say it, right?
He won't tell her that she's the reason their daughter has an eating disorder. He won't say she should've never been allowed to be a mother, and that it's amazing the state ever saw her fit to raise a child. If he did that, he'd be forced to see his spouse as something less than the perfect wife and mother, and that would be unacceptable.
She can't be the villain when she's his queen.
Despite it all, I don't blame her for my current state though, not anymore. That's not to say that I have forgiven her either. I don't forgive, and I most definitely don't forget. I just move on, especially when the other person involved won't admit that they did anything wrong. I recognize, however, that I am an adult, eighteen years old and capable of making my own decisions.
She doesn't control my food choices anymore. She's not here to even see them. I choose whether to eat and what I eat. After all these years, I finally have the control, not her, not anymore. It may be her voice in my head, but I ultimately decide whether or not to listen to it.
I am in control.
The thought almost makes me smile as one after another, the cafeteria ladies fill my tray. I must be on some freaking list or something because I swear they give me more than everyone else. One piece of white bread, one helping of steamed carrots, one fish-looking substance, one of what may or may not be strawberry shortcake, topped with whipped cream, and one, well I don't know what that one is. I think it might be—I'm hoping it is—chocolate pudding.
At the end of the line, the lady weighs the tray, her hair net slipping from her bun and down her sweaty forehead. Then she hands it to me.
I take it from her and walk back into the dining hall. It's bright in here this morning, much brighter than normal, and the snow outside reflects the sunlight, tossing light across the gray stone floor and walls and up to the arched wooden beams crisscrossing across the ceiling. Even the guards seem to have taken notice and half of them look out the window rather than at the students in the dining hall.
It gives me an opportunity to get rid of some of the food on my tray, one I shouldn't waste, but I have to be careful about it.
I could slip on the way to the table. I got away with it one time, lobbing a roll underneath a nearby kid's feet. But then I was stupid and desperate when I tried it the next day. That day, they took me back for a new tray, and I swear the cafeteria ladies added even more food than they did the first time.
Shit, the guard with the beer belly is looking at me now, and my opportunity just disappeared, gone in the blink of an eye.
Per Headmistress's rule, I join the rest of the anorexic and bulimic students at a table. I've noticed that even when they weren't required, they often ate together anyway. I have no desire to be here with them, though. A blonde girl with a short pixie cut sends me a friendly wave across the cafeteria, which I return. I can't decide if she feels sorry for me or what after she introduced herself during my first week on campus and offered to show me around. I think she said her name was Trixie, but I declined her offer. I don't need to make friends here.
I don't need to know their names either because it will just make it harder when I leave. No connections always ensures an easy exit.
You know his name though, and he has a beautiful name.
Gabriel, the archangel who spreads God's message, the brother of the Devil.
And also a man with demon-colored eyes and fire fetishes apparently.
