Savages

33: Demons

Judit couldn't say if she slept or not that night, trapped in the void of that black, black, blackhouse.

Demons swirled around her head in the darkness, groaning and rasping in her ears. She didn't know which feverish visions were dreams, which imagination; which blackness was the inescapable terror of her own unconscious, which the inescapable terror of this savage, hateful island.

She didn't know anything.

But she saw a lot.

She saw Sannah, her life ruined.

But no, she couldn't think about that.

No.

She saw her mother, trapped and alone in that prison cell. No visitors. Left. Forsaken.

She saw Archi Breckon, hanging from that beam long ago, as fat and vivid as if she were there.

She saw hatred.

She saw this girl Luna Hartlet, small and mousy, her brown Goldmay uniform too big, pushing her cheap gym bag into her locker. A scholarship girl, poor and hunched, her Calverley accent heavy and out-of-place. As much of an outsider as Judit was.

She saw that particular look on Luna's face when Judit approached the locker next to her. The way she scuttled away, shoes squeaking, lest anyone think she might be friends with the freak.

She heard the whispers and giggles, following her down those glossy corridors like a shadow.

She saw girls she knew the middle names of, classmates for years, pushing each other as the classroom filled up, daring each other to take the seat next to her. To the freak. Like it was catching.

She saw how the seat stayed empty. She saw how the girl forced to take it pressed herself into the table leg, as far away as possible, turning to raise her eyebrows imploringly at her friends.

She felt the shame, the hatred of herself and what she looked like, so strong it burned. This body, this ugly, ugly lump of body. This mind, this ugly, ugly knot of a mind. This life, this ugly, ugly, waste-of-excuse-for a life.

She saw Birchwood.

Blood on the tarmac. She didn't remember the pain now. Just the visions, flashing like a film. Blood on the tarmac. A scuffed boot. A boy with acne on the corners of his mouth. Blood. Tarmac. She deserved it. She deserved everything they gave her. They saw what she was, and she saw it too.

It was easier, the way they hated her at Birchwood. The stitches, the bruising, her body bursting at the seams. Crying as she hobbled to the toilet. Crying when it hurt to piss. Trying not to cry because her tears seeped into her stitches, burned her swollen eyes. Despite the searing pain, that hatred was easier.

Hate was her lot.

She couldn't expect anything else.

But at least they expressed their hate at Birchwood . It was honest. She could face it full on.

It had been a ghost at Goldmay, ever present, ever hiding, lurking in the corners of mirrors, driving her mad on the edge of her vision. No one even said anything. What's wrong with her? Why is she angry?

Freak.

Freak.

Freak.