I'm currently writing a paper in another class based on abuse taking place in privately-owned youth treatment facilities in the U.S and abroad. Some of the testimonies and stories I read from some of the victims of these facilities inspired me to write this and the abuse that takes place in this story is based on abuse similarly painful (if not more so) alleged by many kids who went to some of these schools.
The Observation Room
Every morning I wake up to a swift kick in my side. For the first couple of days, I bothered to wonder “why kick me to wake me up when I’m expecting to lay down for the rest of the day anyway?” It didn’t take long for me to realize the answer, and now that I know, I wonder how I could have questioned the fact that if they let me sleep all day, I wouldn’t be suffering. It just wouldn’t be punishment.
I lie there on my stomach as time crawls past me, my palms on flat on the ground. One side of my face numbed by the frigid stone floor and the other side open to the airless space inhabited only by me and a few flies buzzing in the darkness, sometimes landing on my mostly exposed skin. I’ve given up on wondering how they’ve managed to not only discover but survive in this underground dungeon-like room, but when I hear them hovering close to me or landing on me, I am filled with a primal terror of being touched by anything living. The imminent reality of their harmlessness sets in, but only after a feverish moment of panic and fear.
I use what seems to be the only strains of power my voice-box can emit to ask permission to use the bathroom. The lethargic guard is sitting on a wooden box, facing the wall opposite my cell. I haven’t seen his face since I’ve been here, however long thats been. Usually, he doesn’t answer me for an agonizing amount of time. He is significantly less despondent in the mornings, so he mutters back “permission granted”, in a tone no where equal to the tone I was forced to yell my request in or else it would be undoubtedly ignored. I get up, all of my bones suffering from an ache so consistent that it doesn’t alleviate with time or experience. I force myself into the most upright position I’m capable of and drag myself to the bucket in the corner.
Hours or days later, some measurement of time I can no longer apply to this place, the gate begins to open. Five guards walk in and surround my carcass-like body lying on the ground. One of them begins to shout an accusation at me for attempting communication outside the observation room. When I refuse eye contact or explanation, he takes me by the hair and shoves me chin-first against the wall. I feel my nose crack, my teeth jam into my gums. The other guards stand with their arms folded. He lets me thud to the ground and screams at me to apologize, to call myself lying scum. I mumble the ineffective words out of a gushing trail of blood coming from my mouth. “You fucking degenerates.” he snarls, shutting the gate closed.
Outside we ran laps and when we finished twenty laps we gathered in a room to watch alcoholic anonymous videos. Rather than inviting you to re-evaluate your own behavior and choices by forcing you into solitude, they seemingly tried to sweat it out of you. But here, in the observation room, they want to torture your rebellion out of you. Dehumanize you until you have no identity to fight for, and without an identity, what use is your body? The beatings become ritualistic. You want to provoke them at first, to establish your power. Then you want to avoid them, you admit that you’ve been broken and attempt to lean on their good side. A lot of kids think that after that, what good is it not fighting back? You’re treated the same regardless. But I just let them chip away at my existence with each blow, knowing that I can’t defend myself or win.
I just can’t tell her any of these things myself, how can I tell her that she threw her money at a bunch of sadistic child abusers, with no intentions of helping me past brutal punishment. The waiting room is empty, so I go up to the door to listen. The doctor says I’ve been deeply traumatized. It explains my unusually reserved demeanor and lack of ability to speak, socialize or do anything without asking permission. She asks if I could maybe ever overcome the trauma, move on and makes friends again and get a job. The doctor says he doesn’t want to discourage her from having hope, but it’s been four years and I still haven’t said a word to her or traveled past the front yard. This is when my mom breaks down and cries.
No comments:
Post a Comment