Promises Lost

The walls at Blackridge Behavioral Institute were painted a neutral tan.

The color was supposed to calm people.

Colorful artwork filled the hallways—crooked houses, impossible animals, suns with too many rays. Small brass plaques beneath the frames gave the artists’ first names and the years they had stayed at Blackridge.

Tomas barely noticed any of it.

He had been there twelve days.

Twelve days without Kay.

No visit.

No telephone call.

No message passed through a nurse or lawyer.

Nothing from Courtney.

Nothing from Red.

On his first night, Tomas had punched the wall beside the infirmary until his knuckles split. He screamed at every staff member who approached him and kept fighting until they sedated him for his own safety.

The dent remained.

So did the record of everything he had done.

Every outburst became another page Sheriff Rook could use to keep him there.

The rage had burned hot for the first few days.

Then it collapsed into something heavier.

Tomas walked through the hallway with one hand pressed against the wall. The faint scrape against his knuckles reminded him that he was still there.

Still real.

Still alone.

“You’re going to sand off your fingerprints.”

Mr. Harlan passed him in the opposite direction. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a voice that rarely changed no matter how badly someone behaved.

“So?”

“Then we’ll have to identify you by your winning personality.”

Tomas kept walking.

Behind him, Harlan began humming.

“Like he owns the place,” Tomas muttered.

“He’s worked here seventeen years,” another resident said as he passed. “He kind of does.”

The cafeteria doors swung open.

The room was small, not much larger than a food court. Round tables had been scattered across the floor because someone believed circles encouraged connection.

Tomas saw targets.

He collected a tray and dropped into a chair alone. Spaghetti sauce splashed across the table. His chocolate milk tipped toward the edge.

He left it there.

“Mind if I sit?”

A thin boy stood across from him. He hunched beneath an oversized sweatshirt and held his tray as if asking permission to eat.

Tomas didn’t answer.

The boy sat anyway.

“I’m Bob.”

“Congratulations.”

“Technically Richard, but I don’t like Rich or Dick.” Bob peeled the paper from a small cupcake. “Too much pressure.”

Tomas pushed his tray aside.

“The food’s crap.”

Bob tasted his spaghetti.

“I’ve had worse.”

“Where?”

“Home.”

He said it cheerfully, as though it were a joke.

Tomas looked away.

“Last name’s Love,” Bob continued. “Bob Love. No relation to the basketball player.”

“Fascinating.”

“Or any of the Beach Boys.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“I know. People still ask.”

Frosting covered two of Bob’s fingers. He leaned across the table and gave Tomas a friendly tap on the arm.

A streak of blue frosting remained on Tomas’s sleeve.

Something inside him broke.

Not because Bob had touched him.

Because Bob was smiling as though Tomas might smile back.

Because Bob hunched his shoulders when he spoke. Because he apologized without using the word. Because he looked like someone who had spent years trying to take up less room.

He looked like Tomas.

Tomas picked up a string bean and flicked it.

It struck Bob in the chest.

Bob glanced down.

“Please don’t.”

“How about now?”

Another bean hit him.

Bob brushed it away.

“I asked you to stop.”

“I can’t hear you, Bob.”

Tomas threw a handful of spaghetti.

Bob ducked, but sauce splattered across his sweatshirt.

The cafeteria quieted.

Tomas felt everyone watching.

For once, he wasn’t the one being watched with pity.

The feeling was ugly.

It also felt good.

If he weren’t weak, Red wouldn’t have left.

If he weren’t weak, Courtney would have stayed.

If he had been worth fighting for, Kay would have fought.

Tomas grabbed his chocolate milk and threw it.

The carton struck the table and burst. Milk sprayed across Bob’s face and clothes.

Bob pushed away from the table.

“What is wrong with you?”

Tomas lifted his plate.

Harlan entered the cafeteria.

“Put it down.”

Tomas hurled it across the room.

The plate shattered against the wall. Spaghetti slid toward the floor.

For half a second, Tomas laughed.

Then he heard it.

Bryce’s laugh.

Not in the room.

Inside himself.

The sound vanished.

The emptiness remained.

Harlan approached carefully.

“Come on, Tomas.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“I’m not touching you.”

“You will.”

“Only if you make me.”

Tomas swung.

Harlan caught his wrist before the punch landed. Tomas kicked, twisted, and tried to pull away.

“You’ll leave too!” he shouted.

The words escaped before he could stop them.

Every face in the cafeteria watched him.

The fight went out of Tomas.

His knees struck the floor.

Harlan lowered himself beside him but didn’t let go.

“You’ve had your say,” he said quietly. “Now let’s get you somewhere private.”

Dr. Kiera Vale’s office didn’t feel like part of Blackridge.

Soft lamps replaced fluorescent lights. Hardwood covered the floor. Bookshelves lined the walls, and the furniture looked as though someone had chosen it rather than ordered it from a hospital catalogue.

Tomas sat rigidly across from her.

“You want to tell me what happened?”

“No, Dr. Vale.”

She waited.

Tomas stared at the floor.

“Marlon said—”

“Harlan.”

“I knew it was one of them.”

“You’ve been here twelve days.”

“I’m trying not to get attached.”

Dr. Vale studied him.

“Bob needed four stitches.”

Tomas looked up. “I didn’t cut him.”

“Your plate shattered near him.”

“I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“But you meant to throw food at him.”

Tomas said nothing.

“Why Bob?”

“He annoyed me.”

“How?”

“He kept talking.”

“Other people talk to you.”

“He touched me.”

“People have touched you before.”

Tomas folded his arms.

“He reminded me of me.”

Dr. Vale leaned forward.

“And what does that mean?”

“Weak.”

The word sat between them.

“Bob reminded you of yourself,” she said, “so you punished him for it.”

“I’m not like him.”

“No. For ten minutes in that cafeteria, you were like Bryce.”

Tomas’s head snapped up.

“Don’t call me that.”

“I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I said you behaved like him.”

“He’s nothing like me.”

“Did Bryce enjoy humiliating you?”

Tomas looked away.

“Did you enjoy humiliating Bob?”

“For a second.”

“How did it feel afterward?”

Tomas stared at the blue frosting dried against his sleeve.

“Hollow.”

Dr. Vale sat back.

“Cruelty usually does.”

Tomas picked at a loose thread on his pants.

“You’re not angry because people left you,” she said.

He looked at her.

“You’re angry because you think they were right to.”

The words struck harder than any punch Bryce had ever thrown.

Tomas looked away before she could see his face.

“I guess I’m screwed.”

“No.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I’m beginning to.”

“Sheriff Rook knows me. Ask him.”

“Sheriff Rook sent a very thick file.”

“I bet.”

“It contains statements from teachers, administrators, and several law-enforcement officers.”

“People who already hated me.”

“Possibly.”

She didn’t dismiss it.

That made Tomas look at her again.

“Blackridge isn’t a punishment,” she said. “Whatever Sheriff Rook intended, my job is to determine whether you need help and what kind.”

“And every time I screw up, he gets another reason to keep me here.”

“Yes.”

The honesty surprised him.

“So what happens now?”

“We keep working.”

“Together?”

“That’s generally how therapy works.”

Tomas rolled his eyes.

But he didn’t look away.

The group room smelled of cleaning chemicals and old carpet.

Residents sat in a loose circle while a counselor asked about their week. Most shrugged. Some stared at the floor.

Tomas sat in the back with his arms crossed.

Bob sat across from him in a clean sweatshirt. A narrow bandage marked the side of his cheek.

Tomas looked away whenever Bob caught him staring.

Eventually, Bob spoke.

“My dad says I’m a disappointment.”

Silence followed.

A tall boy named Eli sat near the center of the circle. Most residents called him Preacher because he carried a paperback Bible and had an answer for everything.

“Maybe your father is wrong,” Eli said.

Bob looked up. “My dad doesn’t get things wrong.”

“Parents aren’t prophets.”

A few residents laughed.

Bob didn’t.

“What am I supposed to do?”

Eli considered the question.

“Keep going.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s most of life.”

The counselor allowed the silence to remain.

Bob glanced briefly toward Tomas.

Tomas lowered his eyes.

The dormitory lights dimmed at ten.

They never turned off completely. Amber bulbs glowed above the doors, keeping the room trapped between day and night.

Tomas lay on the bottom bunk, staring at the springs above him.

Across the aisle, Eli sat with his Bible open on one knee.

“You ever notice something?” Eli asked.

Tomas didn’t answer.

Eli waited.

Eventually, Tomas sighed. “What?”

“People who get left behind always assume it means they weren’t worth staying for.”

Tomas turned his head.

Eli was still looking at the page.

“You spying on my therapy sessions?”

“No.”

“Then mind your business.”

“Okay.”

Eli returned to his reading.

The easy surrender irritated Tomas.

“That’s it?”

“You told me to mind my business.”

“You started the conversation.”

“And you ended it.”

Tomas stared at him.

“You’re annoying.”

“I’ve been told.”

A pipe clicked inside the wall.

Tomas looked toward the ceiling again.

“They left.”

“Okay.”

“No mystery. No deeper meaning. They walked away.”

“Maybe.”

“What else would it mean?”

“Timing.”

Tomas frowned. “Timing?”

“Sometimes people leave because they have to.”

“Does that come from the Bible?”

“No. My mother works nights.”

Despite himself, Tomas almost smiled.

Eli closed the book.

“People confuse silence with absence,” he said. “They aren’t always the same thing.”

“Faith thing?”

“Partly.”

“You really believe all that?”

“Some days.”

“That’s not a very preacher answer.”

“I’m not a preacher.”

“Everyone calls you Preacher.”

“Everyone calls you Bookbag Boy.”

Tomas went still.

Eli realized his mistake.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I said don’t.”

Eli nodded.

Silence returned.

After several minutes, he spoke again.

“Casey plans to come in here after lights-out.”

Tomas looked over.

“With two other boys. It’s what they call initiation.”

“How do you know?”

“I heard them talking in the showers.”

“I thought God told you.”

“No. God has better things to do than monitor Casey.”

“What are they bringing?”

“Pillowcases. Soap wrapped in socks.”

Tomas sat up.

“Are you going to tell Harlan?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you asked if I was spying on you, not Casey.”

Eli set his Bible aside.

“But I think you should tell him.”

Tomas lay back down.

“No.”

“They could hurt you.”

“That’s the point.”

“What point?”

Tomas didn’t answer.

He needed to know what would happen when they came.

Would he curl into a ball?

Would he wait for someone else to save him?

Or had something inside him actually changed?

The dormitory door opened sometime after midnight.

Casey entered first.

Two boys followed him.

Bob stood at the rear, arms folded tightly across his chest.

Tomas was already awake.

Eli sat on his bunk.

Casey lifted a sock with a bar of soap knotted inside it.

“Ready?”

Tomas pushed away his blanket.

“Been waiting.”

Casey swung.

Tomas ducked.

The soap struck the bed frame with a metallic crack.

Tomas charged before Casey could swing again. They crashed into the opposite bunk and went down together.

One of the other boys struck Tomas across the back.

Pain exploded through his healing shoulder.

Tomas cried out.

Another blow caught his thigh.

He grabbed Casey’s shirt and pulled him down, using the other boy as a shield.

A sock struck Casey instead.

The room erupted.

Shouting.

Cursing.

Metal beds rattling across the floor.

Tomas threw punches without technique. Some landed. Most didn’t. He caught one boy in the ribs and took a fist across the mouth in return.

His nose began bleeding.

Someone struck the side of his head.

The room tilted.

Tomas stayed upright.

Casey tackled him against the wall. Tomas drove one shoulder forward and pushed them both onto the floor.

A sock struck Tomas’s back.

He twisted, grabbed the loose end, and pulled. The other boy fell forward.

Tomas climbed over him.

He wasn’t winning.

There were too many of them.

He simply wasn’t surrendering.

Bob remained near the door.

“Come on, Bob!” Casey shouted.

Bob hesitated.

Tomas looked at him through one swelling eye.

“What are you waiting for?”

Bob picked up a pillow.

He struck Tomas once across the shoulder.

Not hard.

Tomas laughed.

The sound startled both of them.

Casey hit Tomas in the stomach.

Tomas folded but didn’t fall.

“It’s beautiful,” he gasped.

“What is wrong with you?” Casey shouted.

“Long list.”

The door burst open.

“Enough!”

Harlan filled the doorway.

The fight stopped.

Tomas stood in the center of the room, bleeding from his nose and mouth. One eye had begun swelling shut.

Casey still held the sock.

Harlan looked at it.

Then at the boys.

“Drop it.”

The soap struck the floor.

No one spoke.

“I started it,” Tomas said.

Casey looked at him.

Harlan’s eyes narrowed. “You walked into their room with weapons?”

“No.”

“Then you didn’t start it.”

“I started it in the cafeteria.”

Bob lowered his head.

Harlan pointed toward the hallway.

“All of you. Now.”

Harlan escorted Tomas toward the infirmary.

“You knew they were coming.”

“Yes.”

“Eli warned you.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Tomas wiped blood from beneath his nose.

“Snitches get stitches.”

“You already have stitches.”

“Then I made the right call.”

Harlan stopped walking.

Tomas took two more steps before noticing.

“I needed to know,” he said.

“Know what?”

“If I would let them.”

“Let them do what?”

“Hurt me.”

Harlan studied him.

“And?”

“I didn’t.”

“You’re bleeding through your shirt. Your nose might be broken, and you can’t open one eye.”

“I didn’t say I won.”

“What did you prove?”

Tomas thought about it.

“I didn’t surrender.”

Harlan resumed walking.

“That part matters.”

Tomas glanced at him.

“But choosing a beating because you’re afraid of being weak isn’t strength.”

“I didn’t choose it.”

“You knew it was coming and refused help.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

“It’s close.”

They reached the infirmary.

A night nurse guided Tomas onto the examination table and began cleaning the blood from his face.

Harlan remained near the door.

“No one here is asking you to prove how much pain you can survive,” he said.

Tomas closed his good eye.

“That’s good.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m getting tired.”

The nurse pressed gauze beneath his nose.

The room smelled like bleach and antiseptic.

No magic.

No monsters.

No miracles.

No mother waiting outside the door.

Tomas thought of the twelve silent days behind him.

Of Courtney walking into the darkness.

Of Red lifting one strap but never saying goodbye.

People confused silence with absence.

Eli might believe that.

Tomas knew better.

“Stories have heroes,” he whispered.

The nurse glanced at him. “What?”

Tomas closed his eyes.

“This one doesn’t.”