Page 2 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 3

“Sit up straight, Dylan.”

I press my shoulder blades back into the chair where I’m sitting across the desk from the director of the Eden Ranch Academy, Muriel Kestral—the place I was shipped off to after waking up in the hospital. The sharp lines of her face don’t look friendly, even though she told me to come to her any time something was bothering me.

The office smells like mothballs and Murphy’s Oil, making me sicker by the minute. In the old days, this place would be called an orphanage and she’d be the Miss Hannigan of the joint—only more pearl-clutchy and less funny. I guess that’d make me Annie, since I seem to land on her shitlist at least twice a week. It’s a place where wards of the state, which is basically kids with no family, sit and wait to get picked up by foster care.

I’ve been in and out of a few homes already. The last one kicked me out because I busted up some expensive china after my foster dad beat my dog for chewing up the fancy dog bed they bought her. He’d called her an ungrateful piece of shit. Like, what the hell was she supposed to do, say thanks?

Maybe she didn’t like the stupid thing. Maybe she liked sleeping in my bed better.

This smelly office gives me the creeps. It has a brow-beaty feel the moment you step foot inside, like you’re going to get slapped across the face with the rulebook. The mission of the facility is to provide the best possible services to children and youth in need of temporary custody and treatment, provided in a safe, caring ... blah blah blah. It’s all crap. No one cares, and I sure as heck wouldn’t be sitting here if I felt safe.

Kestral’s pursed lips stretch to a smile as her stare moves from me to the hunching skyscraper behind me. “So, Dylan. Tell me what Mr. Winters did that has you so worked up?”

I hate that she called him in here. He’s one of the counselors who works night shift and likes to roam the halls on the girl’s wing. If one of us acts out, he’s usually there to hold us down, make sure we don’t hurt a precious staff member. I’ve seen kids’ arms get broken that way, though, or a stray elbow pop them right in the nose. They call him the Boogieman, because the guy is big and creepy as all get out when he walks the halls. I’d come to her discreetly, and the moment I said he’d done something wrong, she dialed him up and had him sit in on the meeting with us. “I would prefer to talk in private.”

Entwining her fingers, she tips her head, that fake smile still plastered on her face. “Yes, well, I’ll not have any accusations thrown around without giving Mr. Winters the opportunity to defend himself.”

“Defend himself?” I stiffen at her words, my fingers curl around the arm of the chair. “What for? I didn’t do anything to him.”

“And what exactly did he do to you?”

I press my lips together and frown. Fuck him. I’m twelve years old and having lived on the streets, I’ve grown to know the difference between good touch and bad touch. “He strapped me to the bed and …” I give a sly glance back at the shifty bastard, eyeing me from where he stands like a statue against the wall. “He touched me.”

“Touched you? As in, grabbed your arm to restrain you? Kept you from fighting him? From hurting a staff member during your little tantrum?”

“As in shoving his dirty hands down into my pants and touching my snatch.” I hate the word, one I’d heard my mother’s clients say a number of times, but it gets the point across.

She clears her throat, and if I weren’t so pissed, I’d laugh at her obvious discomfort. “I’ll not have you speak like that in my presence, Dylan. It’s disrespectful.”

“I’ll not have your staff trying to cop a feel after hours, either. It’s disgusting.”

With a sigh, she sits back in her chair. “Well, we can’t have you walking around here feeling dirty, can we?”

Eyes locked on me, she gives a nod, and my next breath escapes on a whoosh as I’m yanked out of my chair. An immovable band cranks my rib cage, hoisting me up. Legs dangling in the air, I let out a scream and the cold slap of a hand muffles my cry as I’m dragged out of Kestral’s office. Kicking and screaming, I wriggle in my captor’s grasp, pushing against his arm wrapped tight around my waist. The man is enormous.

Impossible.

Kestral follows, her voice echoing down the hall behind us, instructing the other kids who’ve gathered in the hallway to return to their rooms.

I scream harder, my desperate cries trapped inside my mouth, but the others retreat as instructed.

We reach the girls’ bathroom where Winters sets me down on the cold tiles, and the wall slams into my spine, knocking the wind from my lungs. Kestral comes from behind Winters, carrying a jug, like a gallon milk carton, filled with clear fluid.

I slam my leg up between Winter’s thighs, but he catches my calf and digs his fingers into my muscle.

“Ah!” I cry out and bite down on his hand still covering my mouth.

“Fuck!” He draws back and pauses when Kestral says, “Open her mouth.”

Fingers burrow into my jaw, pressing against the sensitive hinge that pries my teeth apart, in spite of my clenching. The strong scent of bleach stings my nose, burns my eyes, releasing more tears. Behind an irritating blur, I stand helpless as she pours a capful of bleach into my mouth. The liquid crystalizes my tongue, and I gag to keep from swallowing it. A toothbrush is then crammed between my teeth prodding a cough when it hits the back of my throat, sputtering bleach into Winters’s face.

Thick nails scrape my chin, the sharp bite of bleach filling my nose.

Kestral scrubs the bleach across my teeth, a cold sting leaving a trail of fire as the brush slices at my gums. Flipping the shower on, she holds the spigot into my mouth and I bend forward, falling onto my hands and knees. Vomit splashes onto the white tiles.

“Now that we’ve cleaned up that dirty mouth, let’s get the rest of you washed.”

Pressure at my nape forces me to a stand and with Winters’s hands clamped around my arms, still holding me in place, Kestral rips my T-shirt up over my head, exposing my bra beneath. The fumes fill the bathroom, mingling with the hot steam of the shower, burning holes in my brain. The cold trickle of bleach slips down into my bra before the harsh scrape of the brush drags across my chest. I sob as she scours my skin, over my collarbone and across the thin fabric of my bra.