Page 150 of Boy of Ruin
It’s because I don’t belong here.
They all ensure I know exactly that.
All of them except the younger sister.
Sometimes I think I hate her more for it.
She's quieter. Doesn’t often look at me. Doesn’t often speak to me, save for that one word. That lie.
“Sicher.”
Even when I try to believe it, even when she tiptoes down in the dark and offers me scraps of food that I snatch from her with shaky hands, I despise her for that word. For the fact I took up learning German because of her. Because of that. Her deep blue eyes are haunted, I’ve seen when I’m free—although am I ever really that?
But her eyes are full of her own demons, and she isn’t doted on like her older sister. It makes my skin crawl for the way she might taste my pain. Sometimes I want to hurt her for her visits. For her kindness.
It makes me hurt all the more, knowing she pities me.
My foster mother acts as if I don’t exist.
I’ve never known tenderness from her, but I’ve seen her kiss the oldest sister. I’ve seen my foster father wrap his arm around her lovingly, joy in his eyes as he watches her play piano or kick a ball.
I’ve never gotten that.
A ball. A piano.
The affection.
The only thing I get to enjoy is languages.
Now, I’m shivering, the urine beneath me long cooled. I don’t know how long I’ve been in here this time. I haven’t eaten in what seems like days. I can feel my ribs. Feel the constant ache in my belly.
No one has offered me anything, let alone scraps.
It’ll be over soon, they promised me.
I’ll be eighteen soon, and I’ll be one with them.
I close my eyes tight, the ache in my hand causing my fingers to tremble more violently than the rest of my naked body.
I try to sleep.
It’s the only thing I can do.
I clutch the bobby pin in my hand, but I couldn’t get it to open the padlock. I don’t know what I’m doing. Next time I’m out, I’ll have to use a computer and watch a video. Or try again when I can see, when the light spills in from the door for those stolen moments of time.
At first, locked up like this, you try to keep track. You want to know how many days have passed.
But then, after a while, when the voices in your head are screaming and crying and sometimes laughing, turning into real people—lovers. Friends. Parents that want to protect you—when that happens, you…lose it.
I push it all away, try to find the numbness. The darkness inside my head. The wires of the cage dig into my spine, the hard floor leaving bruises along my bottom half, and extending my legs is agony instead of refreshing.
So, I stay in the ball.
And I try to disappear into myself.
For a moment, it works.
I’m gone.
