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He’s been our family doctor since I was born, and for as long as I’ve been forced to go to him, I’ve been invisible at best and a bug under a microscope at worst.
Even when I’d have physical exams, and my parents stayed outside, he barely acknowledged me unless it was to ask me a bunch of questions I couldn’t answer. Not in a way he seemed to want me to explain it, or in a timely manner.
Which of course would then just reinforce what my parents already told him, and eventually I just gave up trying altogether.
“This place won’t be like Canaan,” my mother says, “where you get to run free, doing whatever the hell you want.”
Ugh. If I could scoff without risking more damage to my throat I would.
If I had any doubt before that they completely disregarded what I told them the other night—or yesterday, whenever it was; it’s all kind of fuzzy—I don’t anymore.
I should’ve known better than to think they’d start listening now that I’m technically no longer a child. Even thinking I’d beenfixed, they still couldn’t care less what I had to say.
That sinking, heavy feeling returns, one not unlike how I felt walking up the stairs of my parents’ estate, up the stairs, and down to my parents’ en-suite bathroom.
Pointlessness should feel light, like it did when the drugs settled, and my vision blackened.
My last memory was of flying, and it felt very fitting.
I suppose it’s this body grounding me to earth that makes it all feel so unbearable.
Why couldn’t they just let me go if I’m this much of a burden?
“Are you listening, Skyler?” Mother snaps.
I shrug before I can think better of it. Because no, no I wasn’t.
What does it even matter anymore? I’ll be going wherever they send me, doing whatever’s forced of me, just like every time before this. Even becoming a legal adult changed nothing, not if my parents’ pockets have anything to say about it. Surviving death didn’t even make a dent in my fate.
I think I get it now, like really get it—that whole “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” thing people say sometimes.
Maybe I didn’t die because I’m already in Hell.
Maybe Pastor Gabriel was wrong, and I’ve already been damned all along.
Mother huffs and waves me off. “I can’t deal with this.” Her heels click along the floor, growing faint as if she’s leaving the room.
I peek up to confirm as much.
The social worker—I don’t think she gave her name—meets my gaze and I quickly avert mine to somewhere over her shoulder.
She moves closer, just as Father says, “This poor attitude you’ve got going on isn’t going to fly anymore, son. If you don’t get your act together, we will be forced to come up with a more long-term solution.”
I tense.
Long-term? Is that…Are they considering putting me away for good?
My pulse spikes, and if I was still hooked up to a heart monitor, I know it’d be beeping like crazy.
They can’t do that…can they?
“Mr. Sinclair, if I could please have a moment alone with Skyler, I’d—”
A sigh fills the room, cutting her off mid-sentence, and in my periphery I catch my father nodding, waving us off. “I’m going to go make sure the arrangements are in place for his transfer.” Turning on his heel, he pauses just as he passes the young woman. To her, he says, “Don’t be surprised if you can’t get him to talk, or even look at you. We’d hoped he would grow out of it, but as you can see…” He trails off with a sound of disgust.
It’s not often my father is so outwardly disappointed with me. He’s usually far more understanding. But then again, maybe it’s just easier to convince myself he isn’t too disappointed in me when Mother’s so much louder about how muchsheis.
I feel him staring at me, and I blink rapidly, trying not to cry. “This is your last chance,” he says gruffly. “Prove us wrong, and you’re free to do as you please. Prove us right, and we’ll do what needs to be done for your sake and ours.”
