Slamming into my room, I hurry to close the door and collapse into the fetal position. Allowing the tears freedom, I sob until my throat is raw and cheeks sting.
I hate being here.
Ten
Freya
Throwing my suitcase into the trunk of the car, I offer the dull, gray building I’ve been a prisoner in for the last six years my middle finger. Being finally done with this hell hole should feel more freeing, but as I close the trunk and open my car door, a weight pushes down on my chest.
What now?
Five years of Catholic boarding school, wearing prudish uniforms, pretending to worship a lord I wasn’t even sure I believed in was enough to make anyone want to rebel. But that was the extent of my rebellion: a measly middle finger salute. And it didn’t even count because no one was around to see it.
Most graduates left a week ago. I was asked to stay and help introduce the new recruits starting their first year here. Poor souls. This place is like attending a daily funeral and wishing you were the one in the casket. If it hadn’t been for Ivy, I may have thrown myself off the rooftop my first year here.
A genuine smile graces my lips as I pull my cell phone out and dial her name, hoping she’ll help me stay awake for the long drive home.
Home.
Ivy’s picture fills the screen as it rings.
She got me through every year here, with grand plans to run away and become actresses or models. That never came to fruition. Here, I am, eighteen, and not a clue what lies ahead for me. A shallow pit opens up in my gut at the thought of not spending weekends with her hiding in the basement amongst the cleaning products and rats to escape our chores.
The line connects. Her voice calls out, filling the small confines of my car. “Who is this?” she asks with a bored tone.
“Very funny.” I grin, checking my mirrors. I was taught to drive here in the safety of parking lots and small, unused roads. Braving real roads is going to be a challenge.
“I miss you.” Her soft voice sighs down the line. “My father has me working on his campaign.” A yakking sound of her fake gagging muffles the phone.
Ivy is a politician’s daughter. The life she returned to was one of expectation, discipline, and family portraits portraying harmony and values. This school didn’t reform her at all. She’s still a spitfire with her own spunk hidden under formal clothes and natural hair color.
The next time I see her will probably be on TV screen when her father runs for president, her free spirit dulled to a speck.
“When are you leaving?” she asks, rustling something in the background.
“Right now. I’m in my car.” I look around the scenery, tall trees and green fields as far as the eye can see. I won’t miss the acres of nothingness.
“I still can’t believe he sent you a car and didn’t come for you himself. He’s such a prick. Why are all father’s dickheads?” she asks on a tantrum.
Nearly every girl at this school had daddy issues. It gave us something to bond over.
“Welcome to the story of my life,” I muse. Starting the engine, my phone linking to the Bluetooth, projecting Ivy’s voice through the car speakers.
“You should just come here. Forget those losers.” A chuckle rattles my chest at imagining her father’s face if I pulled up and said I was moving in.
My old life is a hazy memory, but I know it’s one of darkness. The man I call Father, the name I carry now, they would make any politician shit their bed if I were around their daughter, let alone moving in with her. I don’t have proof my family now are bad people, but they stole me so…
“I’m sure your father would allow that.” I snort.
“We can lie and say you come from a prissy family that volunteers at homeless shelters.” Father is a blood doner, a doctor of some sort. “We won’t mention you want to fuck your brothers.”
“Ivy! They’re not my brothers.”
Her laughter cackles through the car. “You want to fuck them, though.”
“Anyone with a pulse wants to fuck them. Doesn’t mean I will.” I roll my eyes. My insides churning.
“Do you ever wonder about your birth parents?” she asks, taking me aback. She’s never asked that question the entire five years I’ve known her.
Who I was before them…the memories are all just broken pieces, fractured and faded. The night I was taken is clouded. Something bad sits within the recess of my mind, shielded by a locked door my memory refuses to open.
“No,” I lie.
“Do you think your father will throw you a graduation party? My mother wants to take me out for dinner. DINNER!” she shouts. “Bitch, I just did five years of Jesus school—I want to go to Vegas or Amsterdam.”