He continued rambling on as he flicked through my file, filled with countless documents which gave him the inside scoop on who I was. He paused for a moment before telling me how I should forgive myself and that my past shouldn’t define me.
Come off it, I wear this shit like a suit of armour. Protects me from fuckers like Danny, who I knew the moment I got out of this shit hole would be ready and waiting to ensure I continued to be ‘useful’.
He sat forward, leaning his elbows to his knees, “I think this is rooted deep within your experiences outside of these walls. You have adopted this volatile but protective role, mostly because you feel you were let down by the very people who were supposed to protect you.”
I scoffed, “Is this the part where you tell me it wasn’t my fault? Where you tell me that allowing my body to be used in ways I didn’t understand, to shielding my sister, wasn’t my fault?”
He pressed his lips together, allowing me to spill my thoughts freely.
“That it wasn’t my fault that I wanted to be swallowed by the numbness while necking the drugs I stole. Enjoying just for a moment, peace and fucking quiet. Save the speech for someone who gives a shit about what you think.”
I don’t think he really knew what to do at that point, as an awkward silence sat between us for a while before he placed his clipboard down upon the table. I couldn’t help but glance towards the page, seeing the wordsdissociation, emotional numbness, avoidance, and traumatic denial.
The words hit something broken, a dark place behind my ribs as I stood up from the chair, scraping the feet across the tiled floor.
“Tyler, what you’re doing right now,” Brenner continued, “Is trying to punish yourself for having been a child in an impossible position. You talk about ‘allowing’ your body to be used—like you had choices that didn’t come with consequences worse than the ones you picked.”
“Nice try, doc. Can I go now?”
He nodded, pressing his lips together in slight disappointment, “Of course. My door’s always open to you.” I walked out without another word.
Back to the yard. Back to the walls and the noise and the faces that didn’t know the whole of me. Just the edges. Misfit was sitting on the bench near the basketball court, her back to me. She didn’t look up; she was drawing patterns across her skin with a pen she’d taken from the rec room.
I had sat myself down leaning against the wall, fiddling with a small blade of grass in my fingers, when a shadow crossed my path.
“McCabe!” I didn’t answer right away, but the voice was too close to ignore.
I lifted my head, squinting against the sun. It was Grant, one of the guards, who didn’t talk much unless he had to. His voice, flat as the concrete.
“You’ve got visitation.”
I frowned, “I didn’t ask for one?”
He looked down at the clipboard, lifting the pages, “Does it matter? The girl says she’s your sister. So, move.”
“Squeeks?” I said, my tone laced with confusion.
He gave the slightest shrug, “Didn’t ask for a nickname. Just said her name’s Skylar.”
He led me through the corridors until we hit the visitation room. Fluorescents buzzed overhead, rows of plastic chairs bolted to the floor, scratched tables between them.
And there she was, nestled in the middle of other inmates.
At first, I almost didn’t recognise her. She was taller, her face still round in the cheeks, but she seemed paler than I remembered. Still sporting those bright green pigtails, messily put up like she did it half asleep. But her eyes, her eyes hadn’t changed a bit, still the same warm hazel. She stood when she saw me, her smile brightening, then hesitated in her movements, unsure if she should run or wait.
I walked over slowly, “Hey.” My voice cracking in the middle.
“Hey, yourself,” her face breaking into that cheeky smile that could get her out of anything. “You look… stacked bro.”
I scoffed, “You look… like you grew up,” she chuckled as we both sat ourselves down. She stared at me for a moment, like she was examining my features just in case I disappeared for good.
“I’ve missed you, you idiot.”
My lips pressed together as I looked at her, “Yeah, I’ve missed you too.” She reached across the table, clutching my hands in hers. They were cold and small. Still the same hands I used to hold when we tiptoed through that house, avoiding shadows.
And her nails were short, ragged, bitten down till they were raw. She must have picked up that habit from me.
“Is it bad here?” She asked quietly.
