Chapter 16. Ethan
I could be in the rec room with the others, but I need quiet. Liam would usually stay with me, talking nonstop like a hamster on a wheel.
I miss him. I don't want to admit that.
I ignore the feeling. Nothing is better than peace and quiet. Definitely beats having a nonstop chatterbox, especially after our fight, when things are so awkward between us.
That's what I tell myself.
It's only Miles and me in the room, and he never talks or bothers me, so it's like he's not there.
If I didn't know better, I'd think he was dead.
Except I do know better: Miles doesn't get that luxury.
They wouldn't let him. They'd bring him back from the dead just to keep torturing him.
Ever since he got here, it's been torture.
No rec time, no group privileges, just classes, chores, detention, and his room.
He's held together by pure spite and whatever genetic thing makes a person survive despite wanting not to.
He's strong as fuck, and I feel bad for him on a daily basis.
He doesn't deserve what they do to him, no matter what he did to land here.
Tonight, I know he's not doing well. He usually isn't, but he doesn't let anyone see. Tonight, though, his breath is shallow. I think he's been crying. He pretends everything is normal. He'd rather die than be seen crying.
"I didn't see you at dinner," I say. He doesn't answer. Usually doesn't. I usually leave him alone, but tonight I just know. We've known each other long enough.
I reach over and snag a wrapped granola bar off my shelf, toss it onto his chest.
"I'm not hungry," he says.
"Eat anyway. You're not going in the ground before I do. I won't allow it."
He snorts softly. I let myself relax.
"Now are you going to tell me what's wrong, or am I supposed to start guessing?" I ask, sitting on my bed.
Miles doesn't answer right away. The granola bar remains unopened on his chest, but he doesn't throw it back, which is progress.
He has this habit of ignoring questions he doesn't want to answer, just letting the silence stretch until the person gives up.
Sometimes he turns around and walks away.
I find that commendable. I'd love to do the same.
But he says: "Just more days of nothingness. More walls. Nothing ever gets different." He rolls the granola bar over in his palm, then sets it aside.
I watch his hands. They're shaking, just slightly. "I want to die," he whispers, and I know he means it. I'd want that too if I hadn't had a moment of fun in three years, if I were locked here with no end in sight, a routine of hell day after day after day.
I say nothing, waiting. If I interrupt, he won't talk again.
Today must be bad, because he keeps going. "I fantasize about being hospitalized just to get a break. I think about how I could achieve that. Constantly."
Fuck.
I check my watch. Late. Really late. We shouldn't do this. But I say it anyway: "You want to get out for a minute?"
He focuses on me. Before, his eyes were fixed on the ceiling. "You'll get in trouble."
I shrug. "Come on. You need air."
Miles doesn't move at first. I stand, step toward the door, motion with my chin. "What are they going to do to you if we get caught? You already have constant detention. And I know a place."
That gets a weak smile. He gets out of bed, still looking at me suspiciously. Under normal circumstances, I'd never break rules like this. But my friend needs help, and that's what I do.
We slip out of the room. I keep my steps and posture confident.
As a student leader, I have some privileges, but walking around after dark isn't one of them.
Rec time is almost over, so we don't have long.
But if you look like you belong somewhere, people rarely stop you.
Three years here, I know the whole place, even the hidden parts.
We cross the dark hall, go upstairs to the last floor, where there's a hatch leading to the roof.
I haul myself up, then turn to haul Miles after me.
He's tall and strong, almost as much as me.
The world opens up. City lights in the distance, the moon bright and oversized, cold wind.
I hear Miles exhale, an uneven noise that could be a laugh or a sob.
He folds his arms tight, shoulders hunched.
I stand beside him, hands in pockets, pretending this isn't against at least four facility rules and a dozen laws of common sense.
Worth it when he tips his face to the sky and I feel him relax. He never gets in trouble, not to make his sentence worse, so he must be desperate to come here with me. I'm glad he did.
"Better?" I ask.
Miles nods. We stand there for a while, letting the air freeze us.
"Thanks," he mutters.
"I've got you, bro," I say, and put my hand on his shoulder. After this much time, I love him. Him and Jack, more than anything. My best friends. My only friends.
And Liam.
We sit together, backs pressed against a ventilation unit. The chain-link fence at the perimeter is barely visible. You could almost mistake this for a real campus, not a lock-up. He draws his knees up, arms around them, watching the horizon.
"I can't even remember how long it's been," he says quietly.
"I try to count days, but they bleed into each other.
Sometimes I wake up and think it's still yesterday or the day before." He digs his fingers into his biceps, hard enough that his knuckles go white. He’s very pale already, but now he’s worse.
"I try to remember things will pass, but time doesn't go fast enough.
And there's no end in sight. For all I know, I could be here for years and years, or maybe forever.
They filed me as a psych case, and that's for life.
" He says it as the fact it is. "It's different for you," he adds.
Not bitter. "You have things to do. I have. .." But he doesn't finish.
I want to argue. But he's not wrong.
"I keep thinking," he says, "about what would happen if I just hurt myself. Maybe get sent to the hospital for a few days. Just to be somewhere else."
He's not looking at me. I don't have to hide how much that hits.
"I just fantasize about getting out. Even for a little.” We stay silent. I think he won’t say anything else. He adds: “I bet the hospital has better soup than our cafeteria," he jokes, and that makes me a little relieved for a second.
"You'd be disappointed. Same soup. Maybe even colder."
He smiles.
"You can't count days," I say. "If you do, they'll eat you alive. The only way out is through. You gotta hang in there. There's no shortcut, no way to optimize things, that's why it feels endless. You just gotta endure."
He shrugs. "How am I supposed to do that?"
I search for something that doesn't sound like a guidance counselor script.
"Just remember, I know it's hard, but we won't be here forever.
Even if you think you will, you won't. Every fucking minute of every fucking day, we're going to make it through, even if it's just to make them mad.
They want us dead and gone, wiped from society, but we won't give them the satisfaction. The years are short. Hell, it’s been three years since we met.
Feels like yesterday. But I know, the days are so fucking long.
We just gotta get through one day after the other. "
He nods. Silent. I know he knows that. It's even lame to say, but sometimes it's good to hear it again.
He goes quiet. I think that's the end of it. Then I hear this wet, shuddering gasp. His shoulders are shaking so hard it looks like he's going to come apart. His hands are clutching his own arms, trying to hold himself together. He can't. Full-on crying now.
"Hey," I say, as soft as I can. "It's okay. You're okay. I'm here."
He shakes his head, hard. It's not okay. He knows it, and his body knows it too. I can hear the effort it takes not to make a sound. His breaths are thin and jagged. Every inhale gets smaller, every exhale comes out dry. He can't breathe properly, struggling for air.
I try not to panic with him.
"It's just us. No one else here. You're safe.
You hear me?" He doesn't respond, but his chest is heaving, hands clawing at the fabric over his ribs like he's trying to rip his way out for air.
I remember the protocol from health class: grounding, breathing, touch, wait it out.
But when it's someone you care about, everything in you wants to fix it.
I can't. I can't ever fix any fucking thing.
I put my arm around him. Firm. Anchor him to me.
He comes easily, something I'd never expect.
I start talking, calm and steady: "It's all right, bro.
You're having a panic attack. I've had them too.
It sucks, I know. You won't stop breathing, I promise.
Just let your body do what it needs to do.
We can stay here as long as you want. No one will come up here, and if they do, I'll handle it.
Just ride it out. I'm here. I'm here, bro. You're good."
He shakes and shudders, crying, struggling to breathe. We count together: "Breathe in... one, two, three... out, one, two, three..."
It takes a long time for him to be able to even breathe. I silently pray to a God I don't believe in to make him calm down, because I'm panicking too. I just don't show it.
After what seems like forever, the tension in his arms softens.
He slumps against me, sweaty, shivering.
I hold him, rubbing circles between his shoulders, counting his inhales, letting him press his forehead to my chest. Snot gets all over my shirt.
I don't care. I wish I could hug the pain right out of his lungs.
After a long time, ten minutes, twenty, maybe more, his breathing evens out.
He doesn't sit up. Just stays, curled inward, pressed against me.
I don't say anything. Keep my hand on his back and let him decide when to move.