Page 22 of The Associate
A boy two places down shifted his weight minutely, his knee buckling for a single second. The counselor stopped pacing immediately, snapping his thick fingers.
“You. Straighten up. Now.”
The boy swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, and lifted himself back to his full height, though his legs shook visibly.
“Weak posture is weak faith,” the counselor announced, his voice dropping to a low register that filled the gym. “Weak posture leads to a weak mind. And a weak mind leads to sin.”
He turned his head slowly, his gaze sweeping back over the group. “And sin,” he said, “spreads like a disease.”
Samuel flinched internally, a cold knot forming in his gut. His fingers tingled. Sweat gathered at the base of his neck, a single, cold bead sliding down his spine beneath the stiff, scratchy cotton.
He told himself, with every shred of his will, not to move. Not an inch.
The second hour passed more slowly than the first, each minute stretching into an eternity.
His knees burned. His ankles throbbed. A fine, insistent tremor began to run through his right hand, small, barely visible, but enough to catch his own panicked attention.
Not now. Please, not now.
The counselor’s long, distorted shadow slid across him a full second before Samuel registered the man had changed direction and was moving toward him.
“What’s this?” the counselor asked, his voice deceptively soft.
Samuel stiffened, his panic rising like a cold tide in his chest. “N... nothing, sir,” he whispered, the words sticking in his dry throat. His hand, however, refused the command; the tremor only grew worse, more pronounced.
The counselor’s hand shot out.
The slap landed across Samuel’s knuckles; a sharp, stinging crack that reverberated up his arm.
White-hot heat flared across the skin, and he sucked in a sharp breath.
“Control yourself,” the counselor snapped, his face inches from Samuel’s. “A trembling hand is a guilty hand. It speaks of a soul in turmoil.”
Samuel blinked rapidly, forcing back the hot tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. Crying would only make it worse. Showing pain always made it worse.
He straightened his spine with a monumental effort, his jaw clenched so tightly he felt the bone ache.
The counselor stepped back, a grim satisfaction in his eyes, and resumed his slow pacing.
By the third hour, several boys were visibly on the verge of collapse, their bodies swaying with exhaustion.
The counselor clapped his hands together once, a sound too loud in the silence, and pointed to the row of peculiar chairs against the far wall.
These were not normal chairs. They were taller, unnaturally narrow, and built without any back support.
“Shame chairs,” the counselor announced. “For those who cannot hold themselves with the dignity God requires.”
Two boys were pulled from the line immediately. One swayed so violently he nearly fell before being guided onto one of the narrow seats. The other breathed in fast, shallow, panicked bursts, his chest heaving.
Samuel kept his gaze locked forward, his throat tight. He felt his own legs wobble, just once. A tiny, involuntary tremor.
Just enough for him to notice. Just enough to flood him with cold fear.
Don’t move. Don’t you dare give them a reason.
The counselor walked past him again, his eyes scanning, missing nothing. Samuel held himself rigid, forcing false strength into limbs that had gone numb.
The fluorescent lights buzzed their relentless drone overhead.
