Page 3 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

I tip my head back and stare up at the crucifix. Guess it’s no surprise I ended up here then. Despite the fact that I’m not a boy, or wanting to become a priest.

There’s a rattle of gravel as the cab driver pulls away, and I turn to watch him until the cab disappears in the dappled shadows cast by the birch trees.

If this place wasn’t so isolated, maybe I’d have run away. I’m used to getting by on pious little scraps…I’m sure I could make it out on the street.

I wince at the loud bang the big brass knocker on the door makes when I rap it. Every person inside must have heard that.

But nothing happens.

I shuffle my feet and glance around as I wait, then try again.

The door shifts inward.

Guess there’s no point in locking things around here. Who the hell’s going to rob this place? It’s miles away from anything.

Also, God would surely smite any would-be thieves with a few bolts of lightning if they tried.

I push open the door and step into cool, damp shadows that cling to me like a film. I’m in a vast entrance hall. Small, stainedglass windows barely let enough light through to illuminate the double staircase. On a brighter day this place would look magnificent. Right now it’s like I’m starring in my own horror movie.

“Hello?” My voice hurriedly warbles back to me as if it’s terrified to venture deeper inside.

Lord, it’s quiet in here.

Where is everyone?

Surelysomeonehad to know I was coming.

“Are you Trinity?”

My heart leaps into my throat, strangling my gasp.

I whirl around to face a kid a few years younger than me standing in the shadows beside the doorway.

Where the hell did he come from?

His brown slacks, a dress shirt with a brown tie, and a brown blazer, makes him look like the adolescent version of Mr. Bean, He even has the same dark, slicked-down hair.

He squints at me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m real or a ghost.

“That’s me.” I try for jolly but probably end up closer to psychotic. “And you are?”

“Jasper. I’m your roommate.” Judging from the faint scowl on his face, he’s not thrilled with the idea. He struts past me, heading for the left set of stairs winding up to a landing.

I tighten my grip on my duffel bag and readjust the strap of my backpack before following. Our footsteps echo hollowly until we reach the wooden stairs.

“Roommate?” I call out after him. “So we don’t get our own rooms?”

“Duh,” he says dryly.

Holy crap, I’m just trying to make conversation. I didn’t ask to be here any more than he did. And I know he’s not here by choice, because no one would be here by choice.

This is the place bad souls go to await sentencing in the guise of guiding them to the light.

It’s damp. Dark.Dismal.

Dark wood panelling. Dark paintings with even darker subject matter. Even the light bulbs in the sconces on the wall seem to fight against the dark, as it presses back against their feeble, orange glow.

Jasper turns into a hallway leading off the landing.

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