The two guards accompanying me back to my cell are new, like most things in this place. I've been here about a week-I was called here for the states' convenience. My case is unique so the review is expected to take a while and it was probably cheaper to move me here than to put the supervisory board up in a motel.
It's more important now than at any other time of my life, that I get this right. I have to give them everything-every heart-wrenching, explicitly misconstrued detail.
I hate her. I think, keeping my gaze fixed on the shiny, off-white floor and imagining Avery's face getting smashed under my steps. Her image is flat, moving along with me under the sheen of tile that encases like a trap. Her arms flail the width of hall we're passing through. The very edges of each doorway are just beyond her reach.
My instructions are to be honest and not worry about what the lady with the tight bun or the thin quiet man thinks of me. Tara and Darren, I remind myself. Mister Brandon says they don't have to like me. They just need to know that I don't pose a threat to myself or others, so I need to be forthcoming.
Yeah, that'll help. The sarcastic thought has me biting my lip.
When I get to my cell, the metal door is open. The lights are on, like always. I wait for one guard to walk in before me. After he turns to face me, I'm nudged inside. Behind me, the second guard directs me to turn and face him. I do, then numbly offer my bound wrists when he directs.
The first guard watches while I'm released from the restraints, then makes his way out the door. After he's back in the hall, the second guard nods and steps out backwards, never once taking his eyes off me.
When the solid door slides shut, I turn to the small shelf mounted in the wall at the end of my bed. On top of it sets my dog-eared copy of The Great Gatsby. I pick it up, plop down on my squeaking bed, and set my mind to Daisy and her well-intentioned but destructive relationships.
I'm barely through the introduction before the racket at the door announces dinner is sliding onto the half-shelf just below the slot. The hard plastic tray is lime green.
I move to the floor, considering the food-you never know what you're in for when they serve spaghetti and lime jello-and trying not to think about what must be said tomorrow.
Of all the things I've told them so far, most of its been soft. It was unfiltered truth, but it's still only what happened before-that's how life was before. And I don't know if anyone will ever truly understand what that means.
Before. It's a terrible word.
Now, there's just after, which actually means lonely.
I imagine there must have been millions of moments when I might have seen a look and didn't know it. But to recognize, one must first suspect and I never suspected. There were probably words, harsh ones, some arguments, too, that I overlooked because I was so deep in denial. Is it actually denial if one is wholly unaware? Part of me thinks I had to be conscious on some level, but that level must have been so deeply buried . . .
Pain shoots through my stomach when I think about what happened-and what I have yet to say. Out loud. Will they think I'm stupid? Will they hate me, too?-yes, the harder stuff begins again tomorrow. Unlucky for me, not until the afternoon. I think the hardest part is knowing what's coming and having to wait until after my shift in the library tomorrow morning. The dread runs like ice in my veins, numbing my hands like freezing water.
The stomach ache I've been nursing all day is too much. With one fist clenched against my abdomen, I lean over my dinner tray and take a few bites of jello. The pain subsides after a few minutes and I slip into bed.
Turning on my radio, I'm hoping the balm of music will soothe me, but the tune echoing from my usual station is too upbeat. I roll the dial, searching for something more suitable for sleep. Every station is either in Spanish, only plays country music, or in the middle of a damn commercial break, so there's no way to tell what type of music they've got.
Finally, I stumble across an orchestral arrangement. I'm not sure of the composer, but my nerves find it soothing. After some listening, I recognize the piece as Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. I turn the volume up and shut my eyes, letting my mind slow, despite the quickening pace of the piano.
Letting the notes build their world behind my eyelids, I imagine a thick black line stretching across endless white, painting the scene like a sheet of music. There's a wide, black note like a beanbag chair. I take my position in the center as it begins moving in time with the melody-skating up and down along the scales. I float with the notes, over and under, around the arches and through the twisting paths.