Page 4 of Rage
They wrote it down.
And slid it under the door like a gift.
Saint
Six Years Ago
Three clicks. A pause. The low hum of the mechanism slides into place, a sound I know better than my own name.
“Stand.”
I’m already moving before the command finishes. Not because I want to obey him. Because I learned long ago what happens when I don’t. And in this room with four white padded walls buried in the sub-levels of Kenyan University, there are no corners. No shadows to disappear into. No edges to press yourself against and pretend you’re somewhere else.
That’s the point. To keep someone like me contained.
Controlled.
Invisible.
He thinks it’s working.
My stepfather settles into the steel chair on his side of the acrylic partition. His voice comes through the speaker slightly distorted, slightly diminished. I’ve always thought the glass does him a favor.
“You’ve been quiet today. Can’t sleep?”
I take a few steps forward and say nothing. I think about his throat. I think about my hands. I think about my mother, whoonce told me that some silences aren’t empty. They’re full of things that would destroy everything if spoken.
“I asked you a question.”
“I have nothing to say.”
I have plenty. But saying it requires being near him first, and I’m not near him yet. That day is coming. I can feel it like the next wave of rage when he is near. But I’m patient in the ways that matter.
He leans forward, legs spread, the posture of a man performing confidence for himself as much as for me. “Those eyes of yours are doing plenty of talking. Tell me what you remember?”
My jaw tightens. I give him nothing.
It’s not the first time he’s asked. He loves this. He loves watching me revisit the memory, using it like a scalpel to keep the wound fresh. His version of therapy. I doubt Dr. Wick records it faithfully.
He holds up my mother’s bracelet.
The gold is dull now, but I remember it alive on her wrist, warm from her skin, catching sunlight whenever she reached for me. I remember the tiny sound it made when she brushed my hair from my forehead. A soft, delicate chiming that used to mean I was safe.
My hand moves before I can stop it.
Not far. Not enough for him to call it weakness. Just a twitch of my fingers toward the glass, toward something that hasn’t belonged to me since the night she stopped breathing.
I close my fist so hard my nails cut into my palm.
I stare straight ahead.
“Tell me what you remember.” Slower. Harder.
The light flickers overhead, and that’s all it takes. The white splits open like a seam, and I’m no longer on the fourth floor.
The air shifts. Humidity clings to my skin. The house by the lake. Curtains drawn too tight. The smell of metal underneath perfume.
My hands curl at my sides.
