holds herself very still. If she holds still, barely breathes, maybe the woman will leave.
“I’m simply here today to make sure that you’re not going to do something to harm yourself. Do you think you can talk to me about that, Devon?”
Devon and the woman sit in silence. The woman shifts in her seat. The folding chair squeaks. Devon’s pulse thumps across her temples.
The woman will not leave.
Devon feels the adrenaline in her chest, the pumping of her heart. It’s the feeling of being in the goal when the striker gets a breakaway and is sprinting toward her with the ball. It’s just between the two of them—a battle of skill and decision, 1 v 1. The perfect shot or the perfect save. She waits. On her toes, her body loose. Her arms out to the side, her palms facing out and ready, the net open behind her. Still she waits. Patient for that striker’s touch. And then she goes, springing out of the box, cutting off the angle, diving for the ball, solid and real between her gloves.
This woman is waiting for Devon now. If Devon doesn’t move, then Devon loses. If you don’t come out of the goal but stay frozen on the line, the striker almost always scores.
This woman will not leave.
She isn’t like the woman who had visited Devon every day at the hospital, the social worker with the scraggly hair and decades-old glasses who tried in vain to coax information out of Devon. Devon had stared straight ahead at the wall across from her bed, at the happy two-parent African American family depicted in watercolor there—the summer picnic with the lemonade and bright sunshine, the birds in the sky. Then, Devon had said nothing, and the woman went away.
If Devon tries that tactic again and says nothing, Devon suspects that this woman will simply wait her out until she does.
“I think so,” Devon whispers at last. “I think I can talk . . . about that.”
“Good,” the woman says.
Something breaks inside of Devon then; the relief is palpable. “I’ve never done anything wrong in my life,” she says softly into her knees. “I’ve never ever been in a place like this.”
“Yes, I know.”
“When”—Devon swallows—“when . . . can I . . . go home?”
The woman doesn’t speak right away. “I can’t answer that. It may be a long time.”
Devon doesn’t move.
“Does this scare you, Devon?”
She thinks about the day she’s just had: court, the girls outside of her room, the eyes, the hot humiliation, the fear. Days and days, untold days, like this. She takes in a shaky breath. “Yes.”
The woman nods. “Does it scare you so much that you’d hurt yourself in order to escape it?”
Devon considers the question. She thinks about the times when she’d been scared, even terrified. She’d known many of those times. But her mom always came home, eventually. Or the shouting in the next room would stop—with a slammed door or tear-filled promises or the boyfriend moving out. Even That Night—the pain, it had finally faded.
Nothing had been as harrowing as That Night. Many thoughts had passed through Devon’s mind then, but hurting herself was not among them.
“No,” Devon answers, her throat so tight she barely gets the words out. “I won’t hurt myself.”
“I’m glad,” the woman says and, leaning forward, gently touches Devon’s hand. “I’m so glad to hear that, Devon.”
Devon raises her eyes to the woman.
And wishes, truly wishes, that she could say the same herself.
Because hurting herself would be so much easier.
♥ Uploaded by Coral ♥
chapter six
A metallic snap, like the bolt of a gun, locking into place. Devon shoots upright, her feet tangled up in her sheet. Her eyes jerk toward her door, the source of the sound.
Her heart hammers and her body’s jittery from being woken up so abruptly. She looks around, takes stock of where she is. Cinder block walls. Cement floor. Stainless steel toilet in the corner. Heavy door, tagged with scratched obscenities and
“I’m simply here today to make sure that you’re not going to do something to harm yourself. Do you think you can talk to me about that, Devon?”
Devon and the woman sit in silence. The woman shifts in her seat. The folding chair squeaks. Devon’s pulse thumps across her temples.
The woman will not leave.
Devon feels the adrenaline in her chest, the pumping of her heart. It’s the feeling of being in the goal when the striker gets a breakaway and is sprinting toward her with the ball. It’s just between the two of them—a battle of skill and decision, 1 v 1. The perfect shot or the perfect save. She waits. On her toes, her body loose. Her arms out to the side, her palms facing out and ready, the net open behind her. Still she waits. Patient for that striker’s touch. And then she goes, springing out of the box, cutting off the angle, diving for the ball, solid and real between her gloves.
This woman is waiting for Devon now. If Devon doesn’t move, then Devon loses. If you don’t come out of the goal but stay frozen on the line, the striker almost always scores.
This woman will not leave.
She isn’t like the woman who had visited Devon every day at the hospital, the social worker with the scraggly hair and decades-old glasses who tried in vain to coax information out of Devon. Devon had stared straight ahead at the wall across from her bed, at the happy two-parent African American family depicted in watercolor there—the summer picnic with the lemonade and bright sunshine, the birds in the sky. Then, Devon had said nothing, and the woman went away.
If Devon tries that tactic again and says nothing, Devon suspects that this woman will simply wait her out until she does.
“I think so,” Devon whispers at last. “I think I can talk . . . about that.”
“Good,” the woman says.
Something breaks inside of Devon then; the relief is palpable. “I’ve never done anything wrong in my life,” she says softly into her knees. “I’ve never ever been in a place like this.”
“Yes, I know.”
“When”—Devon swallows—“when . . . can I . . . go home?”
The woman doesn’t speak right away. “I can’t answer that. It may be a long time.”
Devon doesn’t move.
“Does this scare you, Devon?”
She thinks about the day she’s just had: court, the girls outside of her room, the eyes, the hot humiliation, the fear. Days and days, untold days, like this. She takes in a shaky breath. “Yes.”
The woman nods. “Does it scare you so much that you’d hurt yourself in order to escape it?”
Devon considers the question. She thinks about the times when she’d been scared, even terrified. She’d known many of those times. But her mom always came home, eventually. Or the shouting in the next room would stop—with a slammed door or tear-filled promises or the boyfriend moving out. Even That Night—the pain, it had finally faded.
Nothing had been as harrowing as That Night. Many thoughts had passed through Devon’s mind then, but hurting herself was not among them.
“No,” Devon answers, her throat so tight she barely gets the words out. “I won’t hurt myself.”
“I’m glad,” the woman says and, leaning forward, gently touches Devon’s hand. “I’m so glad to hear that, Devon.”
Devon raises her eyes to the woman.
And wishes, truly wishes, that she could say the same herself.
Because hurting herself would be so much easier.
♥ Uploaded by Coral ♥
chapter six
A metallic snap, like the bolt of a gun, locking into place. Devon shoots upright, her feet tangled up in her sheet. Her eyes jerk toward her door, the source of the sound.
Her heart hammers and her body’s jittery from being woken up so abruptly. She looks around, takes stock of where she is. Cinder block walls. Cement floor. Stainless steel toilet in the corner. Heavy door, tagged with scratched obscenities and
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