Chapter One

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  • Dedicated to M- I love you girl!
                                    

The whistle blasts through the air, waking up anyone who actually managed to get some sleep in the freezing cold weather that is currently enveloping the King County Youth Camp for Male Juvenile Offenders. Or, to use its better known name: Boot Camp.

I drag my freezing body from bed. My teeth are chattering so hard that I'm surprised they haven't shattered in my skull and violent shudders roll through my body as the cold from the floor seeps past my thick socks.

I literally cannot wait for the day I get out of this place. I'm seventeen years in two days, and I haven't been this excited about my birthday since I was a kid with pigtails. Of course, when I was little I was excited about presents and cake, my excitement now comes from the fact that it will only be one more year until I turn eighteen and can finally escape the place that has made my life pretty hellish. Boot Camp.

Home to the worst behaved boys in the county, ranging from vandals, to arsonists, shop-lifters to gang members, drug dealers, to car jackers; some of these kids are first time offenders, some have spent half their life in Juvy.

Not me, though. I'm the good girl. I've never broken a rule in my life- never found one worth breaking, to be honest. I follow regulations, respect my elders, don't swear at adults and do what I'm told.

So why am I here? Simple- my dad runs the place.

My dear father lived and breathed the army. When I was three, he was honorably discharged after sustaining a serious injury that lead to complicated medical risks, the retina in his left and right eye having been torn during a training exercise- one wrong punch in the right place and he would permanently lose sight in that eye. Two wrong punches? Blind in both eyes. Devastated at the loss of structure and uniformity in his life, dad opened the King County Camp for Male Wayward Adolescents.

For a while I continued living with my mother, until she died six years after dad was discharged in a mugging gone wrong. I've lived here ever since.

Boot Camp is the absolute worst place to live. In the summer it's baking hot, and you can practically fry an egg on the pavement. In winter, it's a frozen wasteland. Everything about damn Boot Camp is extreme- extreme weather, extreme hikes, extreme exercise, extreme supervision, extreme punishment... 

Dad runs this camp like a military base, with a focus on instilling discipline and respect and providing direct consequences for misconduct. I literally know what it is I'm going to be doing, every second of every day. Even my weekends are filled with 'fun, team building' activities.

I'm pulled from my 'fond' reminiscing of my crappy home by a second whistle- two minute warning. Groaning, I manage to get into my pants, shirt and jacket, forcing my uncooperative, frozen fingers to lace up my combat boots. Literally counting down the seconds, I drag a brush through my long, dark hair and wrangle it into a tight plait, securing any loose strands with bobby pins.

Peep! Peep!

Relieved that I managed to get ready on time, I hurry out of the small dorm room I'm currently occupying alone. The King County Youth Camp for Male Juvenile Offenders has an all male population, as the name suggests, so while the boys cabins are always overflowing, I always have my small space to myself.

It's not a palace, just a bunk bed up against the wall, linoleum floors, brick walls, and a single cupboard- I don't have the luxury of a connected bathroom or anything, though, and have to share a bathroom with the female staff, including showers and toilets- but it's home. Home sweet home. At least I have a mirror, that's more then the boys have.

As I step outside Mi Casa, the wind hits me- hard. Any strands of hair that managed to escape the pins whip against my skin, causing small flares of pain. Wrapping my arms around my body, shivering, I walk over to where dad is standing on an overturned crate, tapping his foot, impatiently, staring at the stop watch held tight in his hand.

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