Everyfuckingslash.
Everyscreamhe let out.
Every ounce ofpainI carved into him.
They can call me damaged. They can shake their heads and whisper about how tragic it all is. They can use his long track record of CPS visits to explain it away like it was inevitable, like I was just another statistic waiting to happen.
But I know something they don’t.
I know that when I swung that first time, I didn’t hesitate.
I know that when I kept going, it wasn’t just fear driving me.
I know that deep down, in a place I don’t talk about, I felt powerful.
Alive.
And I-
“Silas?”
My name cuts through the room.
I snap my head around so fast my neck protests. Adrian stands behind my desk chair, brows drawn together.
How long has he been there?
His braces catch the light when he shifts his weight. His stance is uneven, but he holds himself like he doesn’t want pity from anyone. His eyes are steady on me.
“Did you hear anything I just said?” he asks.
Adrian’s been here almost as long as I have. Long enough to know when I disappear into my own head. In every other universe, he would’ve been someone’s first pick. Fourteen. Kind eyes. Soft voice. The kind of gentleness that feels out of place in a building like this.
He’s the kind of kid couples say they’re looking for.
But this isn’t every universe.
And there isn’t exactly a line out the door for a child with cerebral palsy.
He waits for my answer, searching my face for signs of where I just went.
Pivoting toward him, I lightly tap one of his forearm canes with my foot, nudging the rubber tip just enough to make it squeak against the tile. The sound echoes faintly in the half-lit room. He glances down at it, then back up at me. Despite the tension sitting in his shoulders, a small smile pulls at his mouth.
“It’s hard to hear over the sound of you marching in here with those things,” I mutter, leaning back in my chair.
His eyes roll slowly, exaggerated. “Would you rather I crawl?” he fires back, swinging one of the canes sideways so it knocks into my leg.
The hit barely registers. My body processes pain differently these days. It’s more of a notification than a sensation. Still, I force a reaction, rubbing my thigh and hissing under my breath like it actually stung.
Can’t have him noticing how little I feel anymore.
“I can’t say it wouldn’t be entertaining,” I say, letting a smirk settle on my lips.
“I’m sure,” he replies dryly.
He maneuvers himself carefully onto my bed, bracing his weight as the mattress dips beneath him. The springs creak in protest. His eyes move around the room, scanning corners, the empty beds, the narrow bathroom doorway. There’s a hesitation in the way he looks at the space, like he’s bracing for someone else to be standing there.
“No one else is in here,” I tell him, leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees. “They’re all out doing chores for the Warden. Scrubbing floors. Sorting laundry. Trying to earngold stars.” I study his face. “Is there a reason you look like you’re expecting a ghost?”
