Grayson's Body

Institute

Chapter 33: Institute

Institute

[in-sti-toot, -tyoot]

verb (used with object), in·sti·tut·ed, in·sti·tut·ing.

-to set up; establish; organize

-to inaugurate; initiate; start

to set in operation

-a society or organization for carrying on a particular work, as of a literary, scientific, or educational character.

-the building occupied by such a society.

It's September.

I brace my hands against the cold metal of the window seal. There's stripped white bars crisscross on it, impermeable by normal hands, but I can see the sky, the long wire fence with the shiny barbed wire at the top, and the people in white playing basketball on the courts. One moves to the side, and throws the ball, the white of his uniform catches bright in the mid-morning sun.

We all wear white here. For a moment I believe you can see the saintliness in the fabric.

I don't think you can see it in mine, though.

The paint is a bit chipped, but that doesn't seem unnatural anymore. I pick at it for a moment, digging the tip of my nailbed deep into it, and moving it upwards. It's an old habit, I know.

I have her picture propped up on the window seal. I look at it whenever I'm like this.

I like to brace my hands against the window seal and look out whenever I wake up, or when I get to feeling again, or when I feel like clawing the eyes out of the closest orderly that decides that it's a good idea to get near me when I don't want to have anyone close.

She's smiling and has her sister in front of her, her arms around her chest, her hand on her heart, and I stare at it for a few seconds, and close my eyes. I picture her in my mind's eye. It's easy to do that now; it's easier to do that then actually looking at it even.

In July, Chip's father moved Emma back to Kentucky with him.

He couldn't stand being in Kettle, couldn't stand not getting any definitive answers to what happened that April night.

He called when the heat wave rocked against the Minnesota sky, when the rain refused the come, and when I first smiled, and pretended the medication they were giving me was working.

He asked what happened.

Again.

I told him exactly what happened, in detail.

He hung up on me mid-way through.

I don't blame him.

At this point, I'd hang up on me too.

Like now, as I peal the white, chipped paint off the window seal. Her eyes seem to follow me wherever I go.

My feet are cold and bare against the hard concrete of the floor, but I don't feel cold. If anything, I'm warmer than I have ever been.

I let it go and turn around, pealing my shirt off as I move. I toss it onto the pure white bed. I also keep my bed in order: sheets pulled tight, the sheets white, the sheets in order.

I let my hands feel along the scarred marking of my shoulder, the scar that still seems red and glaring, even though it has been five long months. I let my fingers dance against it, and then I let it go. I grab another shirt off the bed and slip it on. I sit on the edge of it, and lean down, pulling another stack from under my bed.