"I didn't really murder him." I manage to force the words past my lips. "You're talking about not getting technical, but in this case don't you think we should? I'm in here on attempted murder. Attempted. Meaning that I didn't succeed. He's not dead." "No, he's not," Dr. Staud agrees. He's trying to find something in my eyes. "How does that make you feel?" His pen is poised, prepared to strike. "Does it make you feel like a failure, Amelia?" Is he mocking me? "No," I snap, and my eyebrows collapse in on themselves, forming a thin line across my forehead. "I'm glad. I'm glad I didn't succeed. I'm glad he's not dead. I'm glad. I'm glad. I'm glad." The words are very quickly becoming a mantra, a comfort, something that I'm sliding into without realizing. All of a sudden memories are attacking me vividly. Images of blood and knives and screaming mouths push their way to the front of my mind. "You sound like you're trying to reassure yourself," Dr. Staud points out offhandedly as his hands carve letters across the page. "Shut up," I hiss. "Please, please, please, just shut up." "Amelia," he says in what sounds very much like a taunt, "you have yet to recount a single detail of the story." I shakily lift my gaze, which has been locked onto my trembling and twitching hands, to meet his own. "It was three weeks ago." I close my eyes, blocking out his penetrating stare. "He... I..." "Yes?" The prompt is enough to throw me off the diving board straight into a pool of memory. The recollections play in my mind like a horror movie. [i]"Amelia, stop." Hunter stares at me, worry invading his usually peaceful stare. His eyes are like pools of perfection. But I guess that's just Hunter for you. Perfect. I pause in my trek to the gate, my sweater clutched in my hand. He's in my way. "Hunter, move." "Amelia, don't go. I know Dad was being a jackass, but-" "No, Hunter. You don't. You really don't. Has he ever gotten pissed at you? Even once? No? I didn't think so. Ever since you were born you've been showing me up. Everything about you has always been better than me. I'm so sick of it. I'm sick of being 'Hunter's older sister'. I'm sick of being the f*ing afterthought. Aren't I supposed to be your role model? It's not supposed to be the other way around. I'm not supposed to want to be like my younger brother. I'm not supposed to be looking to you for inspiration. Jesus Christ, you're only 13. You're a kid. I shouldn't... I shouldn't be so screwed up that you're a better person than me." Hunter's gaze doesn't even waver. He doesn't have the reaction I wanted at all. So damn perfect that he can't even be hurt by my words. So above everything. I can't stand it. "Get out of my way, Hunter." "No." "I'm not kidding. Out of my way. Right now." "Amelia, please." So now he can beg? Now he can lower himself, his perfect self, to plead for something from me? Even in that word, even in his plea, there is some level of arrogance that floats around his words. I can't stand it. I walk towards him, everything suddenly covered in a film of red. Hazy, a blur, a rush. I'm filled with instinct. Filled with an animalistic hatred and rage and anger and[/i] in and out and in and out and in and out and in and out and [i]now Hunter's on the ground. There's blood everywhere. On my hands, on my sweater in the dirt, on my knife. My knife. My knife. "....No." The haze is gone, reality is falling around me in very solid and very concrete pieces, and everything is back. Everything that disappeared into the fog is back. Right there. Back. In front of me. On the ground. Covered in blood. Now it's my turn to beg. "Hunter, no, please, no, oh God, no, no, no...."[/i] "Good, Amelia." Dr. Staud's fingers form a steeple as he studies my facial expression. The story has spilled from my lips, revealing far too much. Revealing far more than I ever meant to reveal. But it's too late, I can't take back the words that have already fallen into his ears. So there's nothing I can do but stare at Dr. Staud numbly, rubbing my fingers over the smooth woodwork of his desk, listening to the deafening tirade of guilt in his silent office. "Session's over." The interjection from the guard is enough to snap me out of the stupor that this therapy has put me in. Dr. Staud's face shows dissatisfaction, but I've revealed way more than I should have today. I'm plenty satisfied. I'm beyond satisfied. I wish I never had to talk to Dr. Staud again. But his adieu, "I'll see you next week, Amelia," is enough to remind me that I'm not going anywhere. Not really. "And the week after that, and the week after that, and the week after that," I whisper, standing up and approaching the nameless security enforcer. His hands invade my personal space, touching places few guys have ever touched before. At least, before juvie. Now pat-downs are an occurrence that I'm way too familiar with. "C'mon." The grunt and a brief hand gesture urges me to lead him down the corridor, passing by cell after cell containing fellow juvenile delinquents. I figure I'm lucky. I mean, my parents are pretty well off. And they may hate me, but the would never let me go to some public prison, even if its inmates were all underage. My dad would rather die before seeing me or Hunter go anywhere public, lest it be a juvenile detention hall or a school. Ah, school. I don't miss it. Not really. I miss my friends. But only a few of them actually went to St. Agatha's. Most of my friends went to various public schools named after various presidents or "accomplished men of history". They're where I got my bad influence, apparently. We didn't do drugs. I was still a sheltered Catholic school girl. And I never got past second base with a guy, to be honest. But alcohol was a staple at our late night gatherings. Rebel as I was, I wasn't up for much past that. Always Daddy's little girl. Wonder how I managed to wind up here. Oh yeah... I went whacko and stabbed my brother half to death. "Here ya are." The guard nods his head towards my cell, and I shuffle inside and collapse on the bottom bunk. "Hey, Amelia." I sit up. No one knows my name. No one except Dr. Staud. I've stayed to myself thus far. How could someone be "hey"ing me. It's the guard. He's leaning on the bars of the cell with a grin. "Hi." The word is cautious, uncertain, worried. This guard is lecherous. Creepy. His stare is lingering in all the wrong places for a little bit longer than I would like. "Adelaide Worthings." The name means nothing to me. "Okay?" "She's going to be moving in with you sometime today," he explains. The playfulness on his face. It's making me uncomfortable. "Thanks for the heads up," I mumble, shifting back into a lying down position. Hopefully he'll take the hint. He doesn't. I can still feel him there, staring. Ogling. Watching. "You can go now," I add. Mistake. "What was that?" He's a guard. Creepy and perverted he may be, he's still a guard. And I'm an inmate. Think before you speak, Amelia, I silently chide. "Sorry," I whisper. "Please, just... let me sleep. Please." Words grumbled under his breath are punctuated with a kick against one of the bars. His exit is suitably dramatic, and I stare at the ceiling. On edge. Hung between each precise and scheduled moment of my life.

A sort of toxic goo bleached an alarming shade of white is passed off as mashed potatoes, and I watch as the overweight woman behind the counter loads it onto my tray. "Enjoy your meal." "Thank you," I mutter, giving her the only polite gesture she'll ever receive from someone in here. I wonder what would drive a person to decide to be a cafeteria woman in a Juvenile Detention Hall. Some mild form of a mental disability, perhaps? A lack of useful talents? A desire to help those less fortunate? Ha. I doubt that I'm less fortunate than her. I doubt I'm less fortunate than anyone here. I'm just a sad, misguided rich girl. Who might possibly probably be crazy. Maybe. I slide as subtly as I can into my standard spot in the corner of the dining hall. A table full of silent pushovers. That's where I belong. I can watch all the tridaily drama from here, but still remain an innocent bystander. It's an unpoken rule between the people I share the table with that we don't associate with one another. We can eat in peace here. Well. As much peace as possible. Until some chick tears out some other chick's weave out and everything goes to Hell. Which should be happening any minute. You can usually pick out whose going to erupt. The conversation starts out heated, and voices quickly raise. At first it just sounds like any other argument. Tempers seem to be in check. But then one person flips s*** and the whole lot of us descend into madness. Except for me and my mute companions. I'm surprised no one's ever confronted us, yelled at us, decided that we think we're better than everybody else. But apparently no one cares enough. Or notices us. Either way, I'm happy for it. Glad to stay out of the fray. "B****, please." As cliche as the line is, the girl behind it isn't the suspected culprit. It's a skinny white girl with ratty blonde hair, unprofessionally sprayed-in blue highlights, and the eyes of a crazy person. I observe her opponent, a Hulk of a girl with freckles dotting a sort of constellation across her nose. "Shut the f*** up." I don't need to know what started the argument to know what's going to end it. One of them just needs to take the first swing to light the fire. The whole room has stopped talking, in wait. Impatient. Hungry. Violence begets violence begets violence here in the big house, after all. Even if we are all amatuer criminals, we still know how these things are supposed to go. And from what I've witnessed so far, my crop of fellow prisoners seem to be especially skilled at riots. The Toothpick jabs a sharp uppercut at the Hulk and before I know it everyone around me is on their feet, shouting and screaming and ebbing one another on. I swing my gaze from person to person. Nobody really seems to know what they're arguing about. Only that they feel the need to do so. Nails claw faces. Hands slap cheeks. Shrieks of anger and pain orchestrate the whole well-choreographed and well-rehearsed dance. It's all been done so many times before that I can predict exactly what's about to happen next. Guards will attempt to break it up, and one unfortunate will end up accidentally being hit. The individual responsible will go to solitary for a week. The only question on my lips is whose fist will be the perpetrator today. I'll find out soon enough, I suppose, because in come the guards, disapproval etched into the wrinkles on their faces. Silence starts to sweep over all the arguments. The desire to debate dies down, until the only people left shouting are the original pair: the Hulk and the Toothpick. A few guards infiltrate them, hold them back, but their hatred towards one another seems to be too strong. "Let me go, you faggot. Let me go." The Toothpick stops addressing the guard's hands, clamped firmly around her upperarms, and turns her attention back to the Hulk. "You f*ing b****. You're gonna f*ing regret-" The Hulk interrupts her. "Ha. Why don't you just try, huh? You're like an ant, babe. Annoying as f***, but not exactly a threat." She smirks and easily shrugs her own guard's hands off of her, taking several powerful steps towards the Toothpick and pushing against her shoulders, forcing her to stumble several stes backwards. The insults start flying again, much to the Hulk's delight, and the guards intervene viciously, tackling both girls to the ground. Just an average day here in the slammer.

I don't know what time it is, but it's long after dinner, so I know it's late when my eyes peel open at the sound of grating metal. "Say hello to your new home." The familiar welcoming speech to Susan B. Anthony's All Girl's Juvenile Detention Center echoes in my ears, reminding me of my first day here. Reminding me that my first impression happened to be that the whole place was a living Hell. But after a few weeks in Hell, like with most things, you get kind of used to it. Especially when you know that you're only stuck here for a while. I mean, it helps when you know it's not eternal. I don't think I'm going to handle real Hell as well as I've handled juvie. "Hello, home." Sarcasm. An old friend that I haven't heard for weeks. I sit up and stare at a tall redhead, her eyes filled with an adventurous uncertainty. The girl behind the wit. "That's Amelia." This is the part of the speech I never got to hear, as I had been forced to greet an empty cell. "She'll be your partner in crime. Or rather, your partner in rehabilitation. Good luck. She's here for attempted murder." It's now that I realize that it's the asshole guard from before who's giving this new girl a tour of my humble abode. "I thought I was supposed to keep what I did to myself," I say challengingly. A stupid idea. I advert my eyes. "I mean, sorry." I don't know what compels me to do so, but I add a compulsory, "Sir." "She's a feisty one," the guard continues, smirking at me, "but she'll play nice." He pushes his way past the redhead and grabs my chin with his hand. "If you train her properly." His chuckle changes the mood of the room, and I relax a little bit. Just a little. Because something about his laugh manages to ease my defenses. "I'm sure we'll have lots of fun," the girl says, winking at me. I suddenly feel a lot less comfortable. "I'm sure you will, too." The guard smiles at me one last time before leaving, slamming the door shut on his way out. The redhead takes a few steps closer to me and gives me an electric smile. It makes me feel instantly drawn to her. Everything about her, everything about her presence, holds a sense of foreboding. Like she's always about to do something. Like something is always about to happen. She's dangerous. I can tell when she reaches for me and shakes my hand. She's unsafe. Even more unstable than I am, maybe. When she says her name, I can feel something uncertain yet completely definitive in the air. "I'm Adelaide." Fireworks explode. Adelaide. Yes, I had been warned about her, but the name sounded like nothing when the guard said it. Adelaide. The way her lips curve around the syllables of it make me shiver. She's toxic. But it's too late, I'm already addicted to her company. Already addicted to her friendship. I complete the perfection of the moment by saying my name. "Amelia." And the electricity fades away as we transition into conversation. "So, Amelia, what does a girl do for fun around this shithole?" I laugh. "Uh, sleep. Watch specks of dust float around. Count the hairs on your head. Ya know. The usual." She nods slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at me thoughtfully. "Sounds great," Adelaide says, and the sarcasm is back. "Real quality life ya got here." "Well, we also have to go to school. Kind of. It's more like tutoring sessions in small groups. If the tutors were teaching you stuff you learned like three years ago. And then there are the weekly counseling sessions. You'll hate those." "They sound like loads of fun," she says earnestly. "If I was a tool, that is." "Yeah, well. You get kind of used to it. We have outdoor recreation every other day. So since today was an 'off' day, tomorrow we get to go outside. There's a basketball court, but nobody really uses it. Most people just stay to themselves. There are benches and bleachers." "Alright. So." Adelaide bites her lip and her voice gets quieter and much more serious. "Who should I go to get drugs?" I'm expecting this to be more of this girl's act. When I glance up at her, tearing my gaze away from its locked position on my foot, I anticipate a teasing grin to be plastered onto her face. Instead I see a sense of urgency far more intense than I think I have ever seen before on a person. "I wouldn't know," I say honestly. "Listen," Adelaide snaps, and all her playfulness is very suddenly gone. There's a sort of fire in her eyes. "I'm not f*ing around here. I need something. Weed, crack, anything. There's gotta be a dealer. [i]There's always a dealer, kid."[/i] "I really wouldn't know anything about that," I insist. And just as quickly as the rush of intensity had come, it's gone. "Alright." Her eyes dim down, and she runs a hand through her hair wearily. "I can get kind of high strung when it comes to drugs." She cracks a weak grin, but she still looks frazzled. There's still a hint of fire behind those eyes. "Yeah," I say. "No kidding." "I got on weed when I was little." She shrugs and stands up, stretching. "Hey, if we're stuck on this earth, we might as well make the f*ing most of it, right? YOLO, baby!" She laughs, as if sharing an inside joke with an absentee third party. "You seem pretty up tight, chick." "Thanks," I mutter. "But you also seem cool. In a weird kind of way." She offers me her fist, and I tap my knuckles against it, noticing foreign lettering tattooed across her fingers. "What's that say?" I ask, gesturing towards it. She looks down at her right hand and smirks. "Don't really know. Got crazy hammered one night, and woke up the next morning with a killer hangover, a condom wrapper next to me, and my knuckles still wet with some tattoo in what looks like Arabic." "Wow." I don't let judgment pass into my tone, but Adelaide doesn't even need to tick her gaze up from her hand to notice it. "Hey. That was one of the best nights of my life. You think I'm gonna regret having some random ass word on my skin when I'm old?" Another short burst of laughter. "Maybe. But then again, I don't really plan on getting old. So." "What do you mean?" Stupid question. Naive question. I know exactly what she means. And she has sense enough to act like she didn't hear me. "My point is that you've gotta live life to the absolute fullest. Call me cliché. Call me stupid. Call me a whore. I don't really give a s***, because I know that I am never going to look back at my youth and think, Damn, what a shame it was that I never did blah blah blah." She shrugs again, showing off her nonchalance. "I love life. I love what I've chosen to do with life. No regrets, baby. No regrets." I've got no argument. She's already basically confessed that she plans on committing suicide. If that's the way she chooses to live, who am I to say otherwise? "I guess," is all I respond with. I lay back down and close my eyes again, listening as Adelaide launches back into a rant about living life. I'm almost asleep again when all of a sudden she asks me, "So I'm just bunking on top?" "Go for it." "You got vertigo or something?" "Maybe." "Ha." The conversation is brief, an exchange of fading words disappearing into the darkness as I slowly drift into dreamland. ✢ ✢ ✢ ✢ [i]"Amelia, why can't you be more like your brother? "Hunter knows what he's doing. Why can't you? "Shape up. Hunter's going places in life. You don't want to be left behind. "How is that your 13 year old brother is smarter than you, Amelia? Did we go that wrong when your mother was pregnant? My God. I expected better than you. "Failure. "Disappointment. "Embarrassment​. "Disgrace. "A damn shame. "You'll never cease to leave me in awe, Amelia. My own daughter is a whore. Look at that skirt. You really expect me to respect you when you're showing off half of your body just by walking down the street? Well, you've got another thing coming. Go change. Now. Filthy slut. "Hunter is the son I wanted. "Hunter is the child I love. "Hunter is the obvious favorite. "Hunter is the talented one. "Hunter is the success. "You make me sick. "What have you done? What have you done to him? Hunter, oh God. You murderer. You sick, sick, sick whore. Your own brother. Your own perfect brother. He was everything you weren't. He was everything we wanted. Why couldn't you have just left, Amelia. Why couldn't you have just left and never come back. I told you I wanted you gone. You are not my daughter. You are a murderer. You're sick. Twisted. Get out of my sight. Get out of my sight now and never come back. Oh, are those tears? Are you crying? You think you deserve to be crying? You don't think that Hunter should be the one crying? Get the f*** out of here. Now."[/i] ✢ ✢ ✢ ✢ "Dad." I've never been one for talking in my sleep. In fact, I've always woken up very easily. So when this word, this title, escapes from my lips, my eyes fly open and I'm suddenly very aware of my surroundings and my situation. "Havin' a nightmare down there?" Adelaide asks from above me, the concrete walls the questions echoes against stripping her voice of its good-naturedness and making it as emotionless as everything else here. "Yeah," I say softly. The same nightmare. The one I always have. Hunter dying is only part of the dream. Dad screaming is only part of it, too. The real nightmare is me leaving. Leaving everything just lying in the dirt with Hunter. Everything. Every single shred of humanity that was left in my life lay covered in blood in the dirt with Hunter. And I had to just leave it there. "Dad." I say it quieter this time, making sure Adelaide can't hear me. "Dad." I'm allowed to hate him, I think. He's the one who could be to blame for all of this if I didn't know that it was really all my fault. And if I'm not allowed to hate him, well, I've done lots of stuff I'm not allowed to do. So for now, I think I'll just lie in my comfy bed in my comfy prison cell in my comfy juvenile detention hall and hate my dad. Just so I can be distracted for a little while. Just so I can take a break from hating myself.