Read Online Positively Beautiful by Wendy Mills - Free Book Online

and an elephant named Maude are buried here somewhere,” Chaz says, gesturing vaguely toward the rolling land around the crumbling remains of buildings. “This used to be the burying ground for circus animals that were too big to cremate.”
    It’s a warmer-than-normal evening, and the cicadas hum as the sun droops in the sky, the shine of its bloom dull and crimson. The faint roll of thunder in the distance vibrates gently in my chest and birds chirp merrily, at odds with the sincere need I feel to whisper.
    Leaves crunch under my feet as I follow the others toward a long white building with barred windows and no roof on the second floor.
    â€œSome bums caught it on fire a while back.” Chaz shakes his head, like anybody actually
cares
that half the decrepit old building burned down.
    We enter the building through the front entrance, covered by a cheery portico that not only protects the front door but an abandoned old boat as well.
    Nobody mentions the boat, so I don’t either.
    Inside are large open rooms, framed by banks of windows covered only with bars. Rusted pipes droop from the ceiling, and floor tiles slip and slide under our feet. A few small metal bunk beds lie on their sides and bloated water-stained paperbacks lie open as if waiting for someone to come back and finish reading them. The prison laundry is full of rusty washers and dryers, massive enough for me to crawl inside. A pile ofwhat must have been fifty seat cushions molders in a corner, and thousands of sheets of paper litter the floor.
    I pick one up and read that Thomas West, born November 8, 1956, was admitted into the prison in 1987, in possession of “a wallet and one honest face.”
    I let the paper flutter back to the floor.
    â€œCheck out the art,” Michael says, the first thing he’s said since we entered the building.
    It’s hard to miss the street art. Colorful spray-can paintings cover every available wall, full of big bubble letters and vibrant blues, green, reds, and oranges. Faces peer at us from walls, and strange vivid paintings sprawl the length of entire rooms.
    We stop at the entrance of a long narrow hallway, dark and dripping in the fading light. Someone has painted a man—boy?—dressed all in gray, crouching on the ground clutching his head in his hands. Above his head, it reads “I’m so ronery.”
    â€œRonery?” Trina says. “What’s that mean?”
    Chaz laughs, a sputtering hiccuping sound. “It’s from
Team America: World Police
? He’s trying to say ‘lonely.’
I’m so lonely
.”
    Trina slips her hand in Chaz’s, and he pulls her close. I busy myself with my camera. By the time I’ve snapped several shots, Trina and Chaz have moved off.
    Michael is still near me, by a wall. I walk over to him and see the paint is peeling off the wall, erasing the painted squiggles on top and revealing an empty canvas underneath.
    Without speaking, Michael heads down the dark narrow hallway and I follow. At one point, he stops and offers me hishand over a large puddle. The feel of his warm hand sends tingles through me from head to feet.
    We pass cell after cell, tiny rooms only big enough for one person. Each cell has a metal shelf attached to the wall for a bed and a rusty metal table, and some still have toilets.
    Michael heads up a flight of steps, and I hesitate. It’s getting darker, and the stairs look dicey. I debate turning on my flashlight, but instead hurry up after Michael, who is looking at a painting of a puffer fish in the stairwell.
    Upstairs, we go down another hall and Michael stops in front of a cell door.
    â€œThis is my favorite,” he says.
    I step inside the tiny cell. There’s no door, but still it feels creepy. What grabs my attention right away is the picture someone has painted on the wall. It’s a bearded man in an orange prison suit, and the artist has painted him sitting on the metal