Page 44 of This for That (The Edge of Retaliation 1)
My heart feels like a knife has been taken to it.
There’s a picture of Celia on the paper. A beautiful picture of her smiling. Then, scrawled in messy handwriting underneath it, it says, “She had a life. You took that from her. Killer.”
The tears burst forth and roll down my cheeks.
17
THEN – CALLIE
“What are you going to do about it?” I growl, crossing my arms and staring at the girl in front of me.
She’s bigger than me.
She’s scarier than me.
But I no longer care.
When you don’t care, you fear nothing, and when you fear nothing, you can’t be hurt. You can’t be hurt because you don’t care what happens to you. I’ve been hit, and abused, and constantly in trouble for the last year, but I’ve survived. I’ve taken on girls bigger than me, smaller than me, and everything in between.
Trisha is a thing of the past. Long gone.
These girls, the new girls, they’re far worse.
“I’m going to cut your damned tongue out and shove it down your throat,” Amie hisses.
Amie is in here for assault, major assault. She beat her mother close to death, then she assaulted officers when they tried to detain her. She’s not a huge girl, but she’s savage. She came into this place with a chip on her shoulder, and she wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone.
She was going to make sure we all knew she wouldn’t be messed with.
Of course, I didn’t heed that warning, and made sure she knew I wouldn’t be messed with either.
And here we are.
I snort at her threat, and lean in closer, saying, “I’d like to see you try. In fact, I dare you.”
Her eyes flash and she steps forward, about to push me, or hit me, or something, when I hear someone bark my name. Amie steps back immediately, and I turn to see Officer Corel walking towards me. He’s angry; of course he is. He’s been trying to help me, but I don’t want his damned help. I don’t want anyone’s help. I just want to keep going on with my life just the way it is right now.
“You can leave, Amie,” he growls to her, and she gives me a death stare before turning and walking back to her table.
Officer Corel looks down at me, and snaps, “You’re coming to work with me outside today.”
“Why?” I mutter.
“Because I damn well said so. Now move.”
He grabs my shoulder harder than he ever has before, which kind of tugs at my heartstrings. I like Officer Corel, and even though I drive him crazy, he’s always there to help me. Have I pushed him too far? Probably, and I deserve his wrath, too.
I follow him outside without complaint. The second we step out, the sun burns down onto us. It’s hot today. The middle of summer isn’t kind to us, and we all try to avoid having to work outside, which is exactly why Officer Corel brought me out here, I’m sure.
He walks over to the garden shed with me and opens it. “We’re going to plant trees and clean up the gardens. You’re not going to complain.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I mutter.
He turns to me, narrowing his eyes. “Why do you insist on doing this to yourself, Callie? I’ve seen thousands of girls come through those doors, none of them as good as you, and yet you’re out to prove that you’re just as bad as the rest of them. You’re forcing yourself to run off the rails. Why?”
His words stump me.
I don’t know how to answer them right away.
“Because nobody cares about me, so why in the hell should I care about myself? I’m simply surviving in here, Officer Corel.”
My words shock both me and him, because they’re brutal and they’re honest.
“So your family let you down; that should be all the more reason to prove the world wrong, to have your own back, to get out of here and show all of them you didn’t sink.”
I look away. “Can we just get to it?”
“Callie . . .”
“I don’t want to talk about this. You’re a guard, not a damned counselor.”
Angrily, he turns and pulls out everything we need. He doesn’t say another word as we get to work in the scorching heat. I work hard, sweat running down my face. I don’t look at him, and I don’t talk to him. I want to go inside, where it’s cool, but I don’t complain. I won’t complain. Not here. Not now.
I’m busy shoveling a heap of dirt when I get distracted by a fight breaking loose over on the other side of the center. I bring the shovel down without looking and hit my toe. Pain radiates through my body, and I cry out in anger, and frustration, and pure agony.
I throw the spade across the garden, and then I start kicking things. I kick, and I scream, grabbing anything in my path and tossing it as far as I possibly can. I’m so angry. So tired. So damned sick of being here. I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I don’t want to cry myself to sleep anymore, then have nightmares of Celia Yates. I don’t want to feel the heaviness in my chest that makes me want to claw my own heart out.
