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The pain is unbearable. I can’t move. I don’t even want to move.
I’m curled on my side in my bed, the ache from the stab wound having turned into a heavy throbbing. My shirt is soaked with blood, so I pulled a blanket over myself. My fight has gone. I’m tired. I’m scared. I have nobody on my side. I want to go home, but even there I’m not welcome. I have nothing.
Madeline came back, but I pretended to be asleep. Soon she fell asleep herself.
I then endured the worst night of my life, feeling more than once like my body was going to give up on me, and kind of hoping it would at the same time.
When morning rolled around, I knew I was going to have to tell someone.
“Callie?”
The male voice and the sound of my door opening has me rolling and then crying out in pain. Officer Corel walks into the room, his eyes on me. He notices the blood when the blanket moves, and he rushes over. “What happened?”
“I . . . I just hurt myself. It’s nothing,” I whisper, sweat trickling down my face. A cold, clammy sweat.
I don’t feel so well. Not at all.
“You need to tell me what happened right now. I’m taking you to the nurse. You should have been take immediately. Someone will answer for this.”
Madeline sits up, rubbing her eyes. “What’s going on?”
“I was hoping you could tell me?” Officer Corel asks, helping me out of the bed.
I buckle over and cry out as pain shoots through my side. It’s then Officer Corel notices my hand. “What the hell has happened here?”
“It’s nothing. I’m accident prone,” I grind out through clenched teeth. “Don’t worry about it.”
“We’re going to the nurse.”
He helps me out of the room, his arm supporting me. I wince the entire way to the nurse’s office, and when we get in, and I lie on that bed, a tear rolls down my cheek. Officer Corel calls Mary. She rushes in after a few minutes, and her eyes fall on me. “Oh no. Not again.”
“What’s been happening, Mary? Speak to me.”
“She came in only a few days ago with broken fingers. We had to get them looked at by Doctor Grace. She said she dropped something on them gardening, but now this . . . Can you tell me what happened, Callie?”
I wince as she slowly lifts my shirt and her eyes widen. “I . . . I dropped some plates and I fell and . . .”
“You’re lying,” Officer Corel mutters. “Tell the truth, please.”
“That is the truth.”
“Trisha,” he mutters. “You’re scared to say anything, but Callie, I’ll have her moved. I’ll do something, if you just tell me what happened.”
Do I tell him? Should I trust him after he told me everything would be fine when he went away?
I don’t know.
I don’t know anything.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Trisha.”
“These are going to need to be looked at. My guess is stab wounds; they’re going to need stitching. I’ll call the doctor in,” Mary says, leaving the room.
Officer Corel turns to me. “What happened while I was away?”
I tell him. I tell him everything that happened and when.
As I speak, his face scrunches up with anger. He looks like he’s about to bust a top. When I’m finished, he growls, “I had strict instructions left for you to be away from Trisha. I’ll speak to the officer in charge about this, but for now, I’m going to get you to make a formal statement. I’ve wanted Trisha moved for quite some time now; this should be enough to make that happen.”
“And if it doesn’t . . .?” I whisper, feeling incredibly unwell right about now.
“It will. She’s a danger to everyone around her. It’s time she is put back in her place. I’m sorry this happened. You’re a good kid, Callie. You don’t belong in here.”
I turn my head and look at the wall, a silent tear rolling down my cheek. He’s wrong. I do belong in here. That makes it feel that much worse, because every time I think about it, every time I get sad, I remember Celia’s life, and I can’t feel sorry for myself. She has no life left. I’m here because I took that from her.
“You okay?” Officer Corel asks.
I nod.
There is nothing else to say.
I don’t deserve pity, and I don’t deserve special treatment.
Mary comes back in after a few minutes and announces that the doctor is coming. She gives me some pain relief and starts cleaning up the wounds while Officer Corel takes an official statement and calls in another officer, asking for him to take over so he can go and take my statement to whoever is in charge. I’m guessing, anyway.
The man that takes over is Officer Barney. He’s older, and fairly quiet. He doesn’t say a lot, but I do notice him staring at the stab wounds in my side, and then his eyes meet mine. He looks like he could be someone’s grandfather. Is he? Is he looking at me wondering how he’d feel if I were his child? Would he be as ashamed of me as my parents are?
I turn and look at the wall again.
I can’t stand any more looks.
Any more sympathy.
I made my bed, and now I have to lie in it.
Even if it is made of razors and broken pieces.
~*~*~*~
“HOW ARE YOU?” MY MOTHER asks, staring at me like something is going to rub off from me onto her, as if this place is full of disease and horror. She’s looking at me like she’s never seen something so horrendous in her life, let alone had to call it her daughter.
She doesn’t care. I’m not stupid.
She’s visited me twice since I’ve been here, this being the second time. The first time she told me she was going to get a lawyer to look into the case again. I didn’t hear from her after that until now; nor did I hear from a lawyer. I’m not stupid. I know she’s not going to do anything to help me. Somewhere, deep in her mind, I’m sure she thinks I deserve this punishment.
I shouldn’t have stolen her car; that’s what she has told me a million times over.
If I had done as I were told, if I’d just listened and followed her guidance, none of this would have happened.
As if I haven’t thought of that a thousand times over in my head.
I cry myself to sleep every night thinking about all the things I could have done differently, right down to not taking the damned car, not having alcohol in it, not taking my friends, not taking my stupid eyes off that road, not even for a second. I’ve gone over all these things; she doesn’t need to remind me. I’ll live in this nightmare forever. She gets to continue with her life.
“Fine,” I mutter, answering her question. “I’m fine.”
She studies me, narrowing her eyes as if she has a million things to ask me, but isn’t going to. What could she possibly want to know? Am I being bashed in here? Yes. Is it hell? Yes. Am I wishing every single day for something different? Yes.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
“You don’t look fine. What happened to your hand?”
“I broke my fingers.”
“How?”
“A girl stood on them, and broke them, then she stabbed me with a broken plate. Any other questions, Mother? You didn’t think I was going to have a wonderful time in here, did you? You didn’t think it would be all roses and long walks?”
My mother’s face twists in a scowl, and she snaps, “I don’t need your sarcasm. You’re not the only one suffering, Callie.”
“Oh.” I laugh bitterly. “You’re barely hanging on? Imagine how I feel, being locked in this hellhole for the next six years because you refused a plea deal. Sometimes I wonder if you hoped I’d get longer, and that’s why you didn’t take it.”
“Do not accuse me of such things!” she gasps. “I’m your mother, and I love you. I can’t believe you’d assume anything less.”
“If you loved me, you’d be visiting more often. If you loved me, you would have shown concern for the fact that my fingers are broken, and that I have stab wounds in my side. Don’t insult the word love, Mother. You wouldn’t know the meaning of it.”
Her mouth drops open, then closes again, then opens. “You think I don’t care? I’ll be speaking to the head of this place in regards to your treatment. I won’t have my daughter being abused.”
I roll my eyes, because honestly, what else is there to do? She’s acting like she has any sort of power, like her words mean anything. They’ll just laugh at her and move along. She’s simply saying what she thinks I want her to say, so she looks like the trophy mother instead of the useless one she comes across as more often than not.
“Don’t bother,” I mutter. “There is no point.”
“I won’t have you being treated like this.”
I exhale. “How is Max?”
“He’s fine. He’s working hard and making something of himself. He’s all I have left now.”
“I’m in detention, not dead,” I growl. “Stop speaking as if I am.”
“The way things are for me and Max right now, you might as well be. We’re struggling with the aftermath of your mistake.”
My mistake.
My. Mistake.
“I’m done here,” I say, standing and placing my hands on the table, looking over at her. “Don’t bother visiting me if you’re just going to make it worse. I know what I’ve done. I know exactly where I went wrong, I don’t need your constant reminders. If you want to come again, do so with love and appreciation for your damned daughter, or don’t bother at all.”
I turn to walk out, leaving her fanning herself and sobbing as if I’ve just ripped her heart out.
I haven’t.
She’ll step out of this place, bring a tissue to her eye, dab away her fake tears, and get in her expensive car and go home.
I won’t cross her mind again.
That’s how she works.
It’s how she’s always worked.
She’ll never be what I need.
Not ever.