Page 8 of Savage Hope

What I'm not grateful for, is that somebody else had the opportunity to turn my life into this. Somebody had more power than me. Somebody was able to bring me here against my will, harm my family, and erase my future.

I never want anybody to have that kind of power over me ever again. Except it's not that easy, and that fact is confirmed when the teacher claps his hands, summoning our attention. “As you enter the halls, Mrs. Stephens will hand each of you a journal and pen. You will now enjoy the art of journaling every evening before dinner. No exceptions. The pens are powered to offer an endless supply of ink so no alternatives are to be used. Anyone who fails to journal will miss the following day's break session.”

I gulp, soaking in the information he quickly fires at us as the panic of losing our only sense of freedom rattles in my thoughts.

Marching into the corridor, Mrs. Stephens hands out a brown leather journal to each of us, along with a thick black pen.

Another action out of my control, another breath I can't take for myself.

Stomping through the halls, our footsteps echo around us. The sound offers no comfort as we make our way to our rooms. One by one, we step behind the metal doors that hold us even more imprisoned in this cramped, small school. When door number eleven comes into view, I step inside and let it click shut behind me. With a heavy sigh, I lean back against the metal, blinking back any emotion that threatens to come to the surface.

I am numb.

I am pain free.

I am merely in existence.

I wonder if I've always been this sad. I wonder if I've always been this cold. I wonder if this is who I was before I came here. But nothing really makes any sense for me to know the right answer to that. All I know is these four walls, the same four teachers, and the same daily routine that greets me the moment I open my eyes and clings to me until I close them once again.

There's no break, there's no joy, there are no weekends. There's just seven days a week of the same thing: wake up, wash, brush your teeth, join the breakfast line, school, lunch, school, break, back to the rooms, food, back to rooms, sleep.

Peering down at the new belongings I’ve been given, I try to figure out the negatives to it. There’s always something in their favor, but I can’t see their angle on this one just yet. Not that it matters. It’s not worth risking going against their wishes if it might cost me my break time.

Pushing off the door, I trudge to the bed, flopping down on the stiff mattress with a groan. I don't know whose idea this was,to create such a space, but thinking about it on a deeper level always brings out a fire in my gut. It tells me to push back, to fight against it, but the most present thought in my mind is to succumb to it.

If I was weak enough to let this happen to me, I'm not gonna be able to stop anything else.

Now, I’m nothing but a creature of their design.

Now, it doesn’t matter what comes my way, we already know the ending.

There's no point, no hope, no dawn to bring any kind of light to such a twisted situation.

All they’re doing is prolonging the inevitable.

Turning to the journal once again, I open it up to the first page, running my fingertip over the lined sheets, before I scribble across the top line the only thing I can think of.

I just wish they could kill me now and save me from having to live this way.

4

P

Dear Diary,

Lame.

I’m P, and I’m…sad? Lonely? Broken?

I don’t know what I am, I just know I’m here even though I wish I wasn’t.

If I knew of a way to get the hell out of here I would. Hands down. Don’t even have to ask me twice, but unfortunately, I’m not so lucky. None of us here are lucky.

Maybe I should take comfort in the fact that I’m not alone in the matter, but finding the ability to connect with anyone here feels impossible. The only thing we have in common is the fact that we’re all here waiting to die. What am I going to ask someone? Oh, hey, do you feel sadness deep inside,like an overwhelming swell of waves crashing against your strength again and again and again?

They would likely laugh in my face, I’d rather avoid any and all interactions than deal with embarrassment.

It seems these pages are the only form of expression I have, so I’m pushing through the discomfort of writing my thoughts. At least this way, I feel like someone is listening to me.

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