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And wait . . .
And oh-my-God-is-this-what-Saint-means-when-his-crazy-ass-rambles-about-the-bordeom?
I'm about to burn through the last of my paper-thin patience.
Or something else.
Maybe the short twat with greasy hair who walks by. Fucker looks like he'll crackle before he pops.
Or maybe the guard who waddles after him, shouting something I don't give a fuck about, before the door to the administrative office opens and Avery bolts out.
She's wet all down her front, staining her shirt even further. Her strawberry blonde hair has gone to frizz, and her gaze is bulbous and bleary-eyed as it searches the hallway.
It's like watching a caged dog scramble when a gate is left open. She's not graceful about her exit, nearly hitting the opposite side of the wall, before she rights herself to stagger down the hall.
I push off the wall and start toward her. I realize as I get closer that I've been near-sighted. She's not a caged dog. She looks like the human equivalent of a train that derailed, tumbled off a cliff, and then blew up at the bottom of the ravine. The closer I get, the worse it becomes. Her face is puffy, and her cheeks are flushed with her rage. She's wet not just on her shirt, but down to her chin, her throat, across her belly, and down to her wrinkled skirt. Even her eyes are the wrong color, tinted red with her anger.
I grab her by the shoulders, and in a very un-Avery like moment, she flings herself into my arms.
"What did they do to you?" I ask her when she starts to sob even harder. I hold her tight, squeezing her against me. Part of me wants to stand here and comfort her, but another part wants to go back and make this better for her. We can rot in the hole together.
"She . . ." she sobs, "s . . . she p . . . poured it down my t . . . throat, and I couldn't breathe," she wails. It takes her a minutes before she composes herself enough to add, "She kept oinking at me, just like my m . . . mom used to."
She coughs as if reliving the moment, and I realize now why all of her is wet with sticky sweetness. Headmistress Graves fucking water-boarded her.
All the progress I've made, everything I've done, and this bitch oinked at her and tortured her.
It's a bad idea to interfere. I never interfere, not for someone else, but she's my Firefly and I've never been good at following directions anyway. I steer her by the hand back to the administration office, and she goes rigid before she tries to pull on my wrist and stop me.
"What are you doing?" she sobs.
I look at her and offer a smile.
"I'm going to fix it," I tell her. "Let me make it better, baby girl."
I have to make it better for her. I take it all back. It's different now, having to see her like this, breaking apart because of what Headmistress did.
I can't watch her go to the hole, not now after seeing her like this.
She's strong. She'll survive. But that doesn't mean I will. I'll burn this fucking place to the ground before I'll let it happen.
I yank her into the office. The old lady who sits at the front isn't there, not that I'd care if she was. I hope the desk and help Avery over.
"Gabe," she tells me with a swallow, "I don't want to."
I grab her face in between my hands.
"Do you trust me, baby girl?" I ask her.
She sniffles and nods.
"Then let me help you."
Before she can argue further, I drag her down the hall to Headmistress's office and open the door unceremoniously. She's on the phone with someone and yelps when she sees me. I rip the phone off its cord and throw it across the room.
"Lock the door, Avery," I tell her.
I hear it shut behind me as I arrive in front of Headmistress.
