Luke focused on the small bits of gravel beneath his feet and pointed his left foot. He began creating a crater with the white sole of his red vans. His bony fingers tightened on the grip around the handle of his large blue duffle bag. Liz signed the last of the admittance papers and walked toward her son, her husband in tow. Andrew handed over a slip of paper, which was folded in the middle and clearly dog eared multiple times by the previous handler.
"I hope you have a good time Luke, you deserve it," Andrew smiled, clamping a hand on his sons collarbone, halfway between his neck and right shoulder.
Yes, because I deserve to be stuck in hell for two months. Is there no military school Icould go to? Insane asylum maybe? Their methods of medicinalhelpstill consist of a hole drilled in the temple. Atleast I'd be lying there almost dead while my brain slowly shuts down. How about we try that?
No?
Liz and Andrews eyes softened as they gazed at their son.
Fine.
"Look, I know it may not seem like the greatest option, but you need a break from all of the school work you focus on," Liz spoke softly as she played with the thin silver chain that hung slightly loose around her tanned neck.
I don'twant a break!
"I guess..." Luke muttered as he looked up into his mother's eyes. She gave him a kind smile and took the glasses hanging from the neck of his Nirvana shirt and unfolded the legs. Liz slowly slipped them on Luke, taking care not to poke her son in the eye on accident. The woman stepped back as tears welled up in her eyes.
"We'll miss you... make sure you check in every so often and tell us what fun activities you've been doing," Andrew chuckled as he stepped forward and stood by him wife. He draped an arm over her fabric clad shoulder and the pair turned away, heading back to the Chevrolet.
Luke's eyes turned to slits for a few moments before he opened them fully again, sighing softly as the car pulled away.
He was stuck here.
And so the blonde turned himself around, and began to slowly trail his suitcase across the gravel, which soon became a field of grass. Seven wooden cabins lined the edges, a campfire pit stationed in the middle of the semicircle. Benches were made from trunks of trees slit lengthways down the middle and hammered to two blocks of pale cream wood. Moss was forming in the edges, and he felt the damp wood turn soft underneath his pale fingertips.
His feet trudged across the dew-ridden greenery and he felt the water soak through and drench his thin trainer socks.
He finally decided to unfold the piece of paper, and he could just about make out the scrawly writing.
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