Don't Touch Her

Chapter Eleven

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The bell tolled.

I sat up that moment and climbed out, quickly making the bed. The others did the same. We hardly paid attention to one another as we heard the bell sound. One... Three... Six. Only one more till seven, and the counselors would barge in.

The door opened, and we all stopped and stood by our beds. I looked across the floor to Clara, her hair flat and uncombed against her head, circles under her eyes.

Elizabeth and Ethel walked behind Sara, their heels tapping against the dark wooden floor of the attic. Sara held a wooden cane. She always carried it with her.

Slowly, she inspected the beds, that they were made, perfectly, with no creases, that everyone was out of bed. Once she had gone around the room, she nodded, slamming her cane against the floor, making a lot of us jump, and then we followed her out.

It was the same routine every day. We follow Sara downstairs to wash up, brush our teeth and hair, and make ourselves presentable. Wear our uniforms, a skirt, and a shirt that fit snug against our skin.

We weren't to complain.

"Complaining infects the attitude of others. You are to be grateful. You are never to ask why this is this way or why you must do this. You do not speak," Sara would say. She was Middle Eastern and had black hair, slim and tall, with long nails that were always painted red.

We had our duties, cleaning, studying, sewing, gardening, and cooking. It was always something different each day. But we never complained, we never could. It was a rule.

Do not complain.

We did our duties, and we wouldn't speak unless if asked a question, unless if spoken to, but never to one another.

Sometimes, at night, when we knew the counselors were asleep, we would climb into each other's beds, soothe someone when they were crying, wrap up their wounds, gnaw on old pieces of gum we kept in plastic, pretending it was food.

Sometimes Ethel would sneak in, wrapped in a silk robe she had saved up to buy, and she would sit on the floor, helping us in any way she could. Wiping our tears as she bandaged a girl's cuts, bandaging her own, crying because the alcohol wipes hurt too much, and it was the only thing she could sneak into her robe that night.

Other times, she would manage to bring a water bottle, dripping small water drops onto our skin to cleanse the wounds.

I remember hearing Clara scream one morning as Sara hurt her. Her cries echoed over and over in my mind. She never talked about it.

Sometimes, I'd see the scars on her arms, the flesh that looked stretched and taunt. I wanted to ask what she had done, why Sara had hurt her, but I never did, too scared to know the answer.

Ethel had cleaned those cuts that night, and she cried, cried because the alcohol wipes burned too much. Screamed into Ethel's robe, Ethel pushing her head into her chest to keep her as quiet as possible.

The memory was etched in my mind, her screams in my ears. I never forgot it.