Page 7 of Savage Hope

There's no joy on these grounds, in those walls, even in the air outside with the thick, dark clouds that consistently loom above us. The classroom, however, stands as a stark contrast to the rest of our drab world, a flash of color in an otherwise monochromatic reality. Part of me wonders why they even bother trying to teach us, but here we are, learning what they want us to within the confines of another square room.

There is chalk in there, though.

Pinks, yellows, and blues.

Not that we get to use them; they’re just for the teacher. All we are allowed to do is sit straight and listen without making a single sound.

That doesn't help with the way I see or feel the world.

S clears her throat, making it clear she’s not done lecturing me, but she’s cut off by the whoosh of a ball heading our way. It slams against the ground an inch away from where I sit, and I manage to catch it before it bounces into my face.

My gaze darts toward the boys who were playing with it and they instantly shrink at the sight of the frown on my face. The question of whether to give them a piece of my mind or not holds me captive for a few moments. But as I steeple my fingers on the worn leather, I decide to give them a free pass this time. Maybe it's because my birthday is tomorrow. Maybe it's because there is still a flicker of hope somewhere deep inside of me. Or maybe I just don’t have the energy to waste on them today.

Bouncing the ball back toward them, I decide not to wait for another chance of it coming back my way. So I stand, wiping my hands down my black pants before heading toward the door.

“Wow, P, that was almost…nice of you,” S murmurs, making me roll my eyes as she continues to follow after me.

I don't know who gave her the power to tell me what I can and can't do, but here I am, living with the results of it anyway.

As I approach the steps that lead into the school, the whistle blows, calling time on our very small break. Instinctively, I fall into line with everyone around me. The noise is gone, the laughter quieting, and all that surrounds us is the whipping of the wind, the dark clouds overhead, and the heavy wooden door that leads us back to our doom.

“Call out your numbers,” Mr. Thompson orders, and the line begins.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

“Five.”

“Six.”

“Seven.”

“Eight.”

“Nine.”

“Ten.”

“Eleven,” I call in tune with everybody else as my shoulders release the tension coiling through my body.

The numbers don’t stop until D speaks, calling number forty-eight.

Forty eight.

It doesn’t seem like a big number, but for this cramped place, it’s the fullest we’ve ever been.

Thirty girls and eighteen boys.

That's what makes up the school. Today, at least. Who knows when a new arrival will come or when one will leave? The choice isn't ours. We're just here at their will, molding into the students they insist we be.

We’re a product of our surroundings. The words play in my head like a mantra, like it should have meaning, like it hurts, like it brings some kind of understanding to what any of this is, but it's none of those things.

My parents are gone, whoever they were, and part of me is grateful for the fact that I can't remember. I can’t imagine the pain I would possibly feel if I was missing someone too. No thanks.

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