Page 56 of Body Tox

I found myself wrapping my bound arms against my chest, that familiar ache blooming behind my ribs like a disease anytime I thought of that monster.

The scriptures and the bible garble were all taken down from the walls. Now, under the peeling wallpaper were kid drawings of little handprints that were all different paint colors.

The hell I endured here had been washed away, covered with these kids’ beauty and free spirits.

Spirits…

That ache returned even stronger as I walked forward, the hallways feeling the same but yet so different. Little bowls lined the kitchen counters, and the table was set up for a lunch that would likely happen soon.

Did sister Beatrice do all this herself? Was there truly no one to help her anymore?

Where didhego?

I continued past the kitchen, walking toward the basement, where there were the same creaky stairs and the same disgusting, musty mold smell.

Heading down, I instantly realized this place was even worse than the last time I had been here. It had cobwebs all over the table, and in the center sat old board games that were grime-covered and unreadable.

Has anyone opened the basement doors since I last closed them?

There was a stuffed bunny in the back corner. It, too, was tangled in the spider’s home, which was just as forgotten as the rest of the stuff here. I coughed, the debris picking up and making me sneeze.

This was Angie’s.

I remembered her always holding the ugly thing anytime she had silent services. God, Evangeline…her face definitely haunted these halls. Those big blue eyes that never met her smiles and her laugh that always sounded like she was in pain. She had tried to tell me so many times.

So many times, I brushed off the feeling that something was off.

So many times, she’d endured that monster.

“I’m so sorry, Angie,” I whispered to the stuffed bunny. “I should have listened.”

A plaque was lying on the ground, its metal covered in the dust floating around me. I kicked it, the dust displacing enough to read.

“Nigel Richman, Headmaster of Evangeline.”

Fucking prick.

As orphans, we all endured enough in our lives. Our childhood was taken from us by the absence of our parents. How could you love yourself when the assholes who are biologically programmed to love you just didn’t?

Some of the kids had lost their families to war, and others were just like me—stray dogs who were sent to the pound.Evangeline was the headmaster’s daughter, who had been adopted by him years before he founded the orphanage.

She was just like us, yet no one saw her that way. They hated that she had what they didn’t—a parent. I was the only one to befriend her. She was my accomplice in most of my schemes, helping me reach the salt to taint the chili or distracting Beatrice while I was getting the whoopie cushion ready.

I think Evangeline was my first crush. I loved that girl and looked up to her.

It was when she killed herself that I figured out exactly what the headmaster was.

He had been raping Evangeline for years, erasing her sanity little by little each time until she snapped.

I had gone into the headmaster’s room that night after Angie died. I was looking for the stuffed bunny to put on her gravestone. I knew she would be missing the ugly thing and had hoped it would give her peace in her afterlife.

I had heard someone coming and hid in a closet.

It was then that I saw him.

He had sat on the bed and started watching a video clip of Evangeline. She was crying and naked, and that monster was hurting her over and over, and worse yet, he kept telling her to be grateful for his ‘love.’

I felt my teeth nearly crack from my anger at the memory.

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