Burnington Gaol

S I X | Adeline

I slunk down the school hallway like a ghost, kept my head down and my thoughts to myself.

All sorts of high school chaos swirled around me – two girls having a screaming match down the hall, a couple kissing by the disused lockers, cliques standing in circles, chatting away. Blinding, it was, all that noise and colour and liveliness, as if I was standing in the eye of the storm while nature's most powerful weapon swallowed up everything around me.

I made a left for the girl's bathroom. A girl, about 5.5 with dark hair, was washing her hands in the sink. I ducked into one of the four stalls as she wiped her hands clean and left. My head tilted ever so slightly as I looked at the back of the stall door. Two deep, sharp eyes were carved there, looking at me. They were too much like the pair of piercing eyes that had locked with mine the previous night – that cold, unflinching stare that cut through me so easily. I breathed in deep and tried to push the memory away. Just as I managed to do so, the bathroom door swung open once more, and all the chatter I'd escaped came flooding back in.

"Did you hear about the old Gaol?" A girl asked.

"What about it?" The other girl said.

"My daddy told me that there was breach last night. One of the inmates escaped."

"No way," she replied. "Who was it?"

I leaned forward, peering through the narrow gap between the stall door and the hinges. They were both applying makeup, staring at themselves in the mirror. One was tall, intimidating. She had long dark hair and thick eyeliner. The other was much smaller, more fragile, with mousy-brown locks.

"Jimmy Dawson," the taller one said. "His brother, Frank, helped him escape, but they got him before he could get out too."

"Dawson?" The shorter girl echoed. "Weren't they the ones on the news a few years back? Yeah... Yeah, for killing that Susie girl. What was she, thirteen?"

"They raped her too, you know. God, they did awful things. I hope they both die and rot in hell."

They both snapped the lids back on their lipstick and shoved them in their bags, before falling into new conversation and strolling out of the toilet. I sat there, dumbfounded, processing the information. Somehow, after listening to their mild chatter, I felt even worse about what had transpired last night. They were rapists and murderers – of a child, no less. A child that was only four years younger than me. I pushed the thought away, cleaned myself up, and stepped out of the stall. As I turned to face the chaotic hallways again, I caught sight of it in the mirror.

The scar.

I sucked in a breath, averting my eyes. Would I ever get used to seeing it? I shifted my gaze ever so slightly, focusing on the scar tissue embedded on my right forearm. It stared back at me, thick and throbbing with a painful memory. I ran my thumb over it.

"ADDIE!"

Billy's scream echoed in my mind and a cold feeling washed over me. I looked away, pulling down my sleeve and exiting into the hallway again.

The typical high school chaos surrounded me again and I tried to focus on what needed to be done today. Hand up English essay. Work on maths project. Ask Mrs Rotherham what the name of that cell division thing was called.

Just as I felt myself relaxing, the principal's booming voice filled the hallways, and everything changed.

"Adeline Wilson, report to the front office. Adeline Wilson."

Hundreds of eyes met mine expectantly, and I shied away, heading for the office. There, I saw the usual pair of sour-faced receptionists sitting behind the counter. I approached them with half a smile, my heart pulsing in my chest, the anxiety squeezing my muscles tight. When I reached the counter, I opened my mouth to ask what the matter was, but was interrupted.

"Addie."

I turned and saw my father, now standing by the row of waiting chairs.

"Dad?" I asked, frowning. "What are you doing here?"

His dark, haunted eyes stared right back at me. His cheekbones were red, swollen, with dark circles under the sockets while his narrow lips looked as if they had never smiled since the day he was born. He looked... broken.

"What's going on?" I asked. "Where's Billy?"

© A.G. Travers 2018