Chapter Ten:
Corey
I sit in the corner and watch as my fellow inmate flows through the sudden realization and horror of what has happened to her. I did the same thing. I'm sure They did, too.
When she starts crying, her keens are like little knives—slicing in ways I didn't know I could be cut. It's terrible and uncomfortable. I want to get up and soothe her, calm her and tell her that I'm here for her, but what good am I, really? I can't make Cutter stop and even if I could, I couldn't free her.
Once upon a time, I thought I was strong. I figured hey, I can lift this much weight and I'm the state champion, that must mean I'm physically strong. I'm cool and rich and popular and I'm a total ace with the chicks, so that means I'm socially strong. I never cry and I always deal with whatever bullshit comes my way, so that means I'm mentally and emotionally strong.
Turns out I didn't know what strength was.
Because this girl's fate makes me cry and this girl's tears make my knees weak and my inability to help this girl makes me feel as impotent as a child.
So, I escape into the dark hallway and press myself against the wooden skeleton of walls going bald of plaster and floral wallpaper. I sink to my butt, huddling on the colorless, mite-infested, threadbare carpet. I hang my head between my knees, cover my ears with my hands, and sob in gasps of stale, dry air for her because I know—more than anyone—what's coming.