3. P
3
P
TWELVE YEARS OLD
T he cold chill in the air brings no promise or hope for what the day may bring.
It’s dark, eery, and full of sadness that seeps deep into the bone, leaving you helpless to the sensation. I wish I wasn't familiar with this feeling that now ripples through my veins, holding me captive, just like it always does.
Looking up at the dark clouds, I wish for something to happen. Anything. But it’s no surprise when nothing comes.
I rub my lips together, wrapping my arms around my legs as I pray for the world to fade around me, revealing its true self. I remember very little of any time before here, nothing of importance, but the sweet scent of flowers that dance in the meadow remains.
As soon as the old memory floods my body, my right hand dives into my blazer pocket, curling around the familiar coin that has become my lifeline in this place. I could draw a replica of the face etched into it with my eyes closed by now. It brings me peace and solace, even though I have no idea where it came from. Despite that, it’s my prized possession.
I wonder if the sun will shine tomorrow. It feels like forever since I’ve seen it. It would be nice, especially since tomorrow brings the brightness of what should be an exciting birthday. My first step into my teens.
Thirteen.
Thirteen and alone, with no understanding, no answers, and nothing but the cold embrace this place continues to provide.
The only fun thing that comes with your birthday here is the extra hour you get to play outside with one other person. I only get to experience it on my birthday since no one else chooses me on theirs, but that extra hour is what I live for.
What else is there to live for?
I’ve fought, I've kicked, I've screamed, but it seems I'm now the product of my surroundings.
Glancing around the concrete playground, I spy the usual people. We’re all out here at the same time, from ages ten to eighteen. People have either formed friendships or claimed a spot on the asphalt for themselves. I’m the latter. I like to be alone so I can think and observe.
It’s always a wonder where the older kids are. They don’t need to kill us until we’re twenty-one after all, but no one knows where they go once they turn eighteen. They’re just not here anymore.
The teachers here are as nameless as we are.
I’m P. Just P.
That's all I've been since I woke up in that lonely bed almost three years ago. I don't know if it stands for anything—the P—I just know it serves its purpose in addressing me when required. I don't even know if I stand for anything.
All I know is I'm supposed to wither away here until the time comes when they can kill me.
Death.
Five little letters making one word that holds such power and I have no control over it.
Laughter comes from my right, pulling me from the darkness that claims my thoughts. I turn to where two girls are skipping rope. The sound of their joy swirls in my stomach, the same noise threatening to bubble out of me, but the heaviness that weighs on me quickly quells any levity I may have been on the verge of expressing and I see them for what they are.
They're only eleven. They don't know where they come from, just like me, but at least they can manage to find some joy here. It's more than I've ever been able to do. Maybe I let the darkness seep in too soon, maybe I let life ruin me before I really got a chance to live it, but I don't recall ever making a sound like that. I don't recall laughter. I don't recall anything but impending doom.
“Are you always going to sit there and just watch the world go by, P?”
Drawn to my left, I find a friend. No, not a friend, maybe a frenemy? Either way, she gives me her usual stare, with her hand on her hip, eyebrow cocked, and her eyes narrowed.
She’s S. Just S.
We’re the same age, and she arrived a few weeks after I did, I think. She still lives life like those eleven year olds, oblivious to the fact that everything we do is pointless.
In her eyes we should be full of life, full of laughter, and full of joy despite our circumstances. But why bother wasting such energy? We may be the same age, but my darkness is just a little bit older.
I refuse to see the world her way, she refuses to see it mine, and now here we are.
As she gives me one of her usual looks, I brace for the rest of the speech that usually comes with her statement. Every day we’re allowed thirty minutes to come outside.
She spends it gossiping and smiling at everyone and anyone, prancing from one group to another, while I claim my spot on the asphalt and give off enough bad energy to ensure everyone else leaves me alone.
When it’s clear she’s not going to walk away until she’s gotten a response, I sigh. “I’m doing what I always do best, S: keeping this spot warm. What more do you want?” I turn my attention away from her, hoping she'll take the hint and go about her way.
Unfortunately, even if she does, there's not very far for her to go. This place is small. Really small. I can see all four corners of the playground from my small patch of concrete, despite everyone out here.
Apart from my room, which hasn't changed since the day I arrived, there is a small dining area for us to eat, where we aren’t given a single choice on what we would like. Outside, the four corners are filled with pieces of rope the girls are playing with, a battered ball for the boys, and a slab of asphalt beneath us.
There's no joy on these grounds, in those walls, even in the air outside with the thick, dark clouds that consistently loom above us. The classroom, however, stands as a stark contrast to the rest of our drab world, a flash of color in an otherwise monochromatic reality. Part of me wonders why they even bother trying to teach us, but here we are, learning what they want us to within the confines of another square room.
There is chalk in there, though.
Pinks, yellows, and blues.
Not that we get to use them; they’re just for the teacher. All we are allowed to do is sit straight and listen without making a single sound.
That doesn't help with the way I see or feel the world.
S clears her throat, making it clear she’s not done lecturing me, but she’s cut off by the whoosh of a ball heading our way. It slams against the ground an inch away from where I sit, and I manage to catch it before it bounces into my face.
My gaze darts toward the boys who were playing with it and they instantly shrink at the sight of the frown on my face. The question of whether to give them a piece of my mind or not holds me captive for a few moments. But as I steeple my fingers on the worn leather, I decide to give them a free pass this time. Maybe it's because my birthday is tomorrow. Maybe it's because there is still a flicker of hope somewhere deep inside of me. Or maybe I just don’t have the energy to waste on them today.
Bouncing the ball back toward them, I decide not to wait for another chance of it coming back my way. So I stand, wiping my hands down my black pants before heading toward the door.
“Wow, P, that was almost…nice of you,” S murmurs, making me roll my eyes as she continues to follow after me.
I don't know who gave her the power to tell me what I can and can't do, but here I am, living with the results of it anyway.
As I approach the steps that lead into the school, the whistle blows, calling time on our very small break. Instinctively, I fall into line with everyone around me. The noise is gone, the laughter quieting, and all that surrounds us is the whipping of the wind, the dark clouds overhead, and the heavy wooden door that leads us back to our doom.
“Call out your numbers,” Mr. Thompson orders, and the line begins.
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
“Five.”
“Six.”
“Seven.”
“Eight.”
“Nine.”
“Ten.”
“Eleven,” I call in tune with everybody else as my shoulders release the tension coiling through my body.
The numbers don’t stop until D speaks, calling number forty-eight.
Forty eight.
It doesn’t seem like a big number, but for this cramped place, it’s the fullest we’ve ever been.
Thirty girls and eighteen boys.
That's what makes up the school. Today, at least. Who knows when a new arrival will come or when one will leave? The choice isn't ours. We're just here at their will, molding into the students they insist we be.
We’re a product of our surroundings. The words play in my head like a mantra, like it should have meaning, like it hurts, like it brings some kind of understanding to what any of this is, but it's none of those things.
My parents are gone, whoever they were, and part of me is grateful for the fact that I can't remember. I can’t imagine the pain I would possibly feel if I was missing someone too. No thanks.
What I'm not grateful for, is that somebody else had the opportunity to turn my life into this. Somebody had more power than me. Somebody was able to bring me here against my will, harm my family, and erase my future.
I never want anybody to have that kind of power over me ever again. Except it's not that easy, and that fact is confirmed when the teacher claps his hands, summoning our attention. “As you enter the halls, Mrs. Stephens will hand each of you a journal and pen. You will now enjoy the art of journaling every evening before dinner. No exceptions. The pens are powered to offer an endless supply of ink so no alternatives are to be used. Anyone who fails to journal will miss the following day's break session.”
I gulp, soaking in the information he quickly fires at us as the panic of losing our only sense of freedom rattles in my thoughts.
Marching into the corridor, Mrs. Stephens hands out a brown leather journal to each of us, along with a thick black pen.
Another action out of my control, another breath I can't take for myself.
Stomping through the halls, our footsteps echo around us. The sound offers no comfort as we make our way to our rooms. One by one, we step behind the metal doors that hold us even more imprisoned in this cramped, small school. When door number eleven comes into view, I step inside and let it click shut behind me. With a heavy sigh, I lean back against the metal, blinking back any emotion that threatens to come to the surface.
I am numb.
I am pain free.
I am merely in existence.
I wonder if I've always been this sad. I wonder if I've always been this cold. I wonder if this is who I was before I came here. But nothing really makes any sense for me to know the right answer to that. All I know is these four walls, the same four teachers, and the same daily routine that greets me the moment I open my eyes and clings to me until I close them once again.
There's no break, there's no joy, there are no weekends. There's just seven days a week of the same thing: wake up, wash, brush your teeth, join the breakfast line, school, lunch, school, break, back to the rooms, food, back to rooms, sleep.
Peering down at the new belongings I’ve been given, I try to figure out the negatives to it. There’s always something in their favor, but I can’t see their angle on this one just yet. Not that it matters. It’s not worth risking going against their wishes if it might cost me my break time.
Pushing off the door, I trudge to the bed, flopping down on the stiff mattress with a groan. I don't know whose idea this was, to create such a space, but thinking about it on a deeper level always brings out a fire in my gut. It tells me to push back, to fight against it, but the most present thought in my mind is to succumb to it.
If I was weak enough to let this happen to me, I'm not gonna be able to stop anything else.
Now, I’m nothing but a creature of their design.
Now, it doesn’t matter what comes my way, we already know the ending.
There's no point, no hope, no dawn to bring any kind of light to such a twisted situation.
All they’re doing is prolonging the inevitable.
Turning to the journal once again, I open it up to the first page, running my fingertip over the lined sheets, before I scribble across the top line the only thing I can think of.
I just wish they could kill me now and save me from having to live this way.