The Innocents

Chapter Eleven

Out of all the girls in The Thorn, I took to paying the most attention to four of them.

Gladey for her anger, Jo for her happiness, Fidola for her sadness and Marla because she was misunderstood and that was the most interesting of them all.

Her hair became the envy of the entire ward. Jo took to brushing with her fingers lightly and Gladey threatened to cut it off in her sleep. Marla didn't really care or at least appeared not to. She just read and mused and then read some more and every now and then she would talk to me because I was one of the only ones who wasn't obsessed with her hair.

She was sitting at a table in the far corner of the craft room one day. There used to be a grand window there which was why the table was there to begin with. But now it was nothing more than a piece of ply wood. Marla was there, colored pencils, paint and crayons all sprawled out and she took turns with each, mulling over her next color with a bite of her lower lip and a low, "Hmmmm." She was drawing something on the would be window.

"I'm glad you're adding some color to this place," I said, taking up a seat at the table. She regarded me silently, tucking a strand a blonde hair behind her ear. "You could probably tell from the pictures taped to this place that rainbows and butterflies aren't high on the list of things that you remember from the outside world."

I wasn't exaggerating. Most of the drawing hailed stick figure families and poorly drawn caricatures of the guards. Some were abstract, squiggly messes without real shapes. I, at least expected something a little joyful from Jo but she continued with her bizarre, magical monster fantasies. Most of which were black and gray and sad in so many ways.

"They are just projecting their feelings and what they remember," Marla said. She turned back the ply board, blue paint brush in hand. "Or what they want to remember."

I watched her paint and draw the sky on that piece of ply wood. There were cotton ball clouds and a sunset over a lined horizon. When she was done for the day, she sat back and we both stared at it like we were old women holding teacups on a front porch somewhere.

"It can be like looking outside," she mused.

I nodded and introduced myself. She reciprocated with a soft handshake.

"Of course they're not happy," she replied, going back to my earlier comment. "This isn't a children cancer ward. Nobody here has hope."

"You look like you do," I said.

Marla looked away, bashful. "I just miss the sky."

"We all do, but nobody paints it."

Marla looked up at me to make sure I wasn't being accusing. It was almost lunch time now and inmates were rushing by the open door of the craft room. I joked that it must be a non-fishy meal day. Marla laughed and said that she noticed they ran out of chocolate pudding cups by the time they got to the end of the lines. The slow were punished by vanilla, the broccoli of the pudding world.

"The universe exacts justice, "I joked. "I kind of like broccoli, though."

"I only do if it's covered in cheese sauce," Marla said.

I swear I started to drool. "Oh my God. Cheese sauce."

We were hitting it off and we were the only two in the room so I dared ask.

"Why were you screaming that way?"

Marla sat still, admiring her fingernails which were bitten and ragged. She had really long fingers for being my height. I bet they could wrap around her own waist easily. Then she swore me to secrecy and said that she screamed because she feared the evil would win. I asked her to elaborate and she did, saying: