A Year of Novembers

Chapter Four

        Deville wrenches my arm and yanks me up, studying my eyes until she lets go. She smiles warmly, and wipes her hands on her blouse. "Alright, Sophia. Have it your way. Every three days, regardless as to whether or not you spit out the information we need, you will be punished in whatever way your instructors feel satisfies them. Enjoy your secrecy," she purrs. She leans back, turning on her heel and strutting out of the infirmary. I stand there, dazed, and think.

Over the next three months, I am beaten, groped, thrown about like some sick game of ragdoll. Those months make me wish one of the teachers would go a bit overboard and just shake me until I'm gone, but never did it happen. Thirty teachers get their kicks by beating me and touching me. Thirty teachers can look me in the eye and then do what they did to me. I went through thirty teachers, and my life became a hell incapable of even thinking there was a heaven somewhere.

It'd be a lie, of course, to say every day was hell. Some days had sparks of a fleeting paradise that teasingly kissed my cheeks and imprinted a longing in my soul, but at the end of the day, the raging hellfire around me burned out the touches of heavenly light.

            See, we pretend that there is good in everyone. We all like to think that there is something pretty and sweet in everything, but we're all lying and we know it. Was there any good in Ms. Deville? Sometimes I thought I saw something, something like sympathy or a glance of concern, but it's just that little pathetic hope that the evil have a bit of humanity in their pitch black blood. There was no good in her, I was sure of it. She let them mistreat me. She invited them to punish a sixteen year old girl- and for what? What the hell was my crime? What the hell did I do wrong to make everyone hate me so? Why was I incapable of identifying the part of me that everyone abhorred? I thought I was good. I swear to God, I was trying to be as good and kind and smart as hard as I possibly could. I could see faults, yes, but I saw no pit of evil that everyone else seemed to see. What the hell was wrong with me?

            I asked Deville. She seemed to see the bad in me so easily- and I wanted to please her. I wanted to please the one person whom I knew would never be proud of me and would always hate me. I knew all these things, yet I still tried to treat her like some damned goddess. I asked Deville what was dragging me down to hell, and she said that it was my thinking. She said that I was uppity and believed myself to be better than all, and I asked her how I could raise myself out of whatever evil that was, and she said that if I could stop living life as if it were my right and live it as a privilege, as a time to not be so damned selfish and to put everyone before myself, I could possibly be saved from my sins.

            Her definition of God was my definition of hell, but I wanted to please so badly. My punishments still continued, and the horsewhip seemed to be a favorite among my abusers, but I kept quiet and did not complain. I wanted to scream at the abuse; I wanted to shriek for all the years I'd wasted here, letting myself go to ruin, but I was desperately afraid of not being loved. I should have seen that I was never loved by anyone in this hellish prison.

One day Deville decided to take me to the room and ask me if all people were equal. I remembered that once I thought that we were all of the same stardust, and I remembered that I had loved that hope, but I could not remember for the love of God what made me think that way. I remembered that only months ago I had relentlessly fought for the right to think, and I remembered the love for passion that I had, but I could not remember the taste of it. I believe that was the greatest tragedy within those months- I knew I had loved life desperately, but I could not remember how it felt, just that it had felt like my heart was aflame.

            So, she asks me if I believe all of mankind to be equal, and I say no. I say no, and she cocks her head and smirks and asks why not. I just let the words roll off my tongue as they are born; we are not equal because some are better than others. Deville asks who the better few are, and I say what this school has drilled into me: The ones who are original without actually being original. After I say this, she smiles this strange sort of smile and says that I am ready to leave the Harrison Academy for Troubled Girls.