Dear Fitzy,

Today I’ve been gone 55 days.

I wish I could write every day. The truth is, it’s not easy, but nothing is really easy here, even if you play along. I do it. I take the medication even though I don’t know what it’s for. I go to “class” which is some sort of bullshit group therapy session where the “teacher” just tells you you’re wrong. But trust me when I tell you if I don’t do those things, life will only be harder for me here.

Here. I bet you’re wondering where I am and where I’ve been. Do you know it wasn’t until day 4 that I found out for myself? The first three days I fought. I cried. I begged. Do you know where that got me? They call it “stable,” which should be ironic enough to be funny because I’d love to be at a different kind of stable. But this isn’t it. It’s a small room I was in alone, only allowed out once a day, and that was just to walk around the room the door opened to. There was a sliver of a window high up but, no sunshine. I lost my voice from screaming, my energy from not eating. I couldn’t even ask “Where am I?” I think that’s why they let me out. I couldn’t fight anymore. They had me right where they wanted me.

Welcome to Horizons School is what they said.

This isn’t a school. This is a prison. And according to everyone who works here, this is where I deserve to be.

But I know I don’t. And neither does Sarah. She’s my roommate. She took care of my torn up back, cleaning it with a cloth and putting Aquaphor on it from a tube she keeps on her at all times. Sarah did all that in the beginning for me, even though I hardly spoke to her for days.

Now, she’s the only person I really talk to.

“Fuck this place,” I say to her every night.

“And fuck the people who put us here,” she always replies.

I found another rebel in Sarah, and not because she keeps contraband ointment in the waistband of her underwear. No. We’re going to get out of here, Fitzy. And when we do, I’ll pretend this never happened. I’ll change my name and move to a Caribbean island and mail you a postcard sometime. I’ll also send you all these notes.

Remember that time in fourth grade when I had laryngitis and you read what I wrote in history class? I’m going to need your help. Please do it again. But for the world this time.

Rebels Only.

Parker

Chapter 5

TWO MONTHS LATER

Like I have two names, I have two birthdays.