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The only thing left is for your parents to sign this. Otherwise, you're good to go." The social worker gave a smile of false sympathy. 

Matson slouched in his chair, looking at the wrinkles in his old t-shirt. He snickered to himself, imagining the relieved faces of his parents as they would send him away. They wouldn't have to deal with a murderer or an attitude problem anymore. They'd probably never given a shit about him anyway, especially now that he had killed their favorite son. However, in his defense, he hadn't meant to. Matson twiddled his thumbs. The words coming from the woman's mouth turned into noises as he zoned out from reality. 

"Please, pay attention."

Matson rolled his eyes."I don't care."

The worker bit her lip, her face clenching in frustration that couldn't be vented

Matson stared at her in annoyance as he continued to play with his thumbs. There wasn't anything to look at in the room, only colorful motivational posters with useless sayings like  "Be yourself!" and "Things will get better!"

They were lies, and he knew it.

***

Matson scowled at the memory as he stood in front of a pair of white doors. In the end, his parents hadn't cared, and he had been shipped here, to some kind of juvenile detention center

Or so he first thought.

The door was the entrance to the male dorms, a wing of the school's main complex. It was a large generic white building situated in the middle of nowhere. The drive up here had been stormy and dim, winding along a quiet road that wove through trees and vacant farm fields.       

I'm not going to survive at this place...he thought as he looked up at the face of the building. The white paint was coming off in some places. He could see the black underneath.

He reached for the metallic doorknob, his hand shaking and sweating as he gripped it. He was reluctant to even perform the simple task of pushing a door open. I never meant to commit a crime...I don't like to commit crimes...I don't belong in a facility like this....

He glanced at his parents who stood behind him, trying hard to feign a masks of sadness and regret. The constant tapping of their feet was driving him crazy. His father finally gave a grunt and a sigh before pushing him out of the way to open the door.

***

The interior of the lobby was standard: white walls, white plastic chairs, a flickering florescent light. In a separate room separated by a sheet of dirty plastic, a woman with gray hair and a white outfit sat at a small desk typing on an old computer.

"Excuse me," he said. The woman didn't look up from the screen. He waited a moment, then said with a growing edge, "Excuse me."

The woman looked up and glared at him. He glared back.

"Name?" Her voice was pitched and squeaky. It reminded him of his scooter, the sounds the wheels made when it came in contact with the ground. 

He pursed his lips before answering, as if it were difficult question. "Matson." 

The woman shoved a pile of loose papers through the small opening. Her expression was utterly apathetic. "Sign where the dotted line is." 

"Yes, just sign where the dotted line is. Sign your future away right here! Right now!"

His eyes scanned over the paper. The line was buried in miniscule text, which he didn't even bother to read. What's the point? I'm still going to end up here regardless. His hand darted across the paper, signing the name messily. He looked at the woman, signaling he had finished.