The Boy I Met On the Roof

The Rooftop

Nobody ever locked the door to the rooftop; maybe it is that they think no one would dare to leave their rooms at night, knowing security is roaming the halls, or maybe it's that they do not care about what could happen if you leave a bunch of mentally unstable teenagers alone on the top of a five-story building. Then again, they care enough to install metal bars in front of every window, no matter if it is a bedroom, classroom, or bathroom. With every passing day, Dustin understands more and more why everyone calls this place "pre-prison", though in prison, the showers have doors, at least. In prison, they don't eat oatmeal for every meal, and they don't have to listen to some religious nutcase lecture them about how they are unnatural freaks of nature as if they all weren't thrown out of their church for one reason or another. Mostly because of instances of domestic violence, sometimes drugs or infidelity, but everything he knows is based on rumors and gossip, coming from someone who knows someone who knows something.

There hadn't been a day since the fourth of May two years ago where he hadn't wished his mother would have gone through with the threats of sending him to an orphanage if he didn't stop crying, complaining, and whimpering in pain, both physical and emotional.
She did say the truth when she claimed to give him over to someone who would treat him so much worse than she does.
Today may be the anniversary of his second year in hell; there's no way to tell with no clocks hanging anywhere and the fact that he most certainly counted either a couple of days too much or too few.

He thinks the staff should keep the date a secret so you don't know when you are eighteen because then you could leave, though he doesn't think just leaving is a good plan. Not even the clothes you wear belong to you, but to them, and the chances that you'll survive the six-hour walk through a dense forest to the nearest city naked, because remember, you aren't entitled to someone to drive you, are low.

There are two ways to leave: go through the graduation ceremony or die.

To graduate, you have to marry someone they pick out, sign a contract that states who knows what, and have sex with them under the careful watch of Principal Sterling. According to most people, the bastard gets off of watching them, even if he claims to only observe them to make sure they aren't pretending.

Mister Sterling is a man in his early fifties, tall with broad shoulders and a figure with more fat than muscle, well-groomed and sophisticated-looking, always deceivingly calm, his expression blank with just a hint of sourness in his icy gray eyes. He never taught any classes; instead, he always strolled through the hallways in search of a kid in trouble to take into his office for "discipline".
Unlike the other staff members, he never talks about himself or his opinions or ideals; he only ever asks what someone did and then responds with whatever punishment they get, be it 20 lashes or wall time, but at least you could tell you fucked up big time when he doesn't publicly state what's going to happen to you, so he won't unexpectedly throw a chair across the room, unlike some others. Even if having a chair thrown at you is terrifying and painful, it's better than wall time.

The roof is one of the few unsupervised spaces, along with the storage room on the third floor and the paper bin near the entrance; the storage room fits three people if you manage to squeeze yourself under the old office desk, because luckily for you, the rest is all full cardboard boxes and chairs, and the bin can hold two people at most, but since everyone knows about them, they're nearly always already full once you get there. This is why Dustin enjoys the roof so much: open space, fresh air, and enough room for a dozen or so students. If there are any more than that or if you stand too close to the edge, the night watch can spot you from below and tattle to the principal immediately, as he either doesn't sleep or sleeps with his suit on.

The roof is hardly anything impressive-simply endless miles of cold, concrete floor and a rusted metal railing, littered with empty cigarette boxes and forgotten lighters. It's dirty and simply depressing to look at, but it's still better than sleeping in a room you share with seven other people, especially if your roommate has a nightmare every two hours and wakes up screaming.
On one hand, Dustin pities Anna; having stayed here for five years is expected to damage someone, but on the other hand, waking up every single night to her howling is unpleasant, to say the least.