A good girl doesn’t want to slash all of the clothes in her closet because they look nothing like something she would ever wear.
“My name is Ravenna Duskin. I’m eighteen years old and I live in a prison,” I recite to myself as I slip on a pair of shoes and head out of my bedroom.
Chapter 3
Our living quarters at Gallow’s Hill are pretty small compared to a normal home, but in the grand scheme of things, the entire six-building facility and the 150 acres surrounding it are technically considered our home as well and this small area is only where we eat and sleep. It’s like living in our own little town.
The living room and four rooms attached have been here since the building was first constructed. Wardens and their families always lived on-site of the prison due to the fact of it being located so far from any major city or town. Back in the early days when there weren’t any cars or other faster means of transportation, if an emergency at the prison arose in the middle of the night, it was easier to have the warden here at all times to attend to it, instead of waiting for the time it would take to get him here. In the early days, guards and other employees were tasked with making sure the warden’s family had everything they needed to live comfortably, so the family never had to leave for such things as groceries or other supplies. For the first few years of my life when Gallow’s Hill was still a working prison, my father would send the guards out for birthday decorations, Christmas presents, school supplies, and anything else we ever wanted or needed. It was like having our own personal butlers to do our bidding and we became very spoiled. After the prison closed its doors and was turned into a historical building, we no longer had anyone to wait on us hand and foot and my mother was put in charge of running all the errands? and then it fell to me when I was able to drive.
Still, Gallow’s Hill remained our own private town, so to speak, and we have everything we need to survive here, leaving little need or want for us to ever leave. Aside from the tours and random charity events held here, our family keeps to themselves for the most part.
Walking in a circle around the living room, I stare at photos of our family that hang on the walls. There are smiles on our faces in each photo, but none of them seem real. None of those smiles reach our eyes, and it makes me wonder just how happy we really could have been living here all these years alone, so far from the closest town and so far from other people. I was homeschooled until high school when my mother thought it was a good idea that I meet other kids and get away from the seclusion of the prison. I only had Trudy as a friend for so long because her father used to work here as a guard-turned-tour guide. My mother made friends with Mrs. Marshall when she would bring her husband his lunch back then, and since they both had daughters the same age, and my mother finally found someone she had something in common with, we all became friends.
I stop in front of a framed photo resting on the mantel of the small stone fireplace in the corner of the room. It’s a black and white photo of my parents and I, taken when I was five years old. It’s the only photo in the room where none of us have fake smiles on our faces. I’m staring off at something in the distance, not even looking at the camera. My father looks stern and rigid, and my mother looks like a strong wind will knock her over. Her face is gaunt and the area around her eyes is puffy. If the photo were in color, I’m wondering if I would see redness around her eyes from crying. I don’t understand why this photo, so depressing and unlike the rest in the room, is sitting on the mantel on display for everyone to see each time they walk into this room. I know I was only five when this photo was taken, but I can remember that day very clearly in my head. A storm was coming and there were dark clouds overhead. I was angry at the time, filled with rage that a normal five-year-old should never feel. I can hear myself screaming at someone, strong arms wrapped around my small body, dragging me into the picture as I kicked and clawed and tried to get away. I hated everyone around me, and I hated being forced to do something I didn’t want to do. The rage and the unhappiness flow through me as I stare at the photo, and I want to rip it down from the mantel, throw it to the floor and smash it into a thousand pieces. I want to stomp my feet on top of the photo and grind the shards of glass into my parents’ faces until they are scratched and distorted and ruined.
I want to ruin them the same way they ruined me.
My hands shake with anger as I lift my arm toward the photo. I see splotches of red at the edges of my vision as my hand wraps around the metal frame, and I grip it so hard my knuckles turn white.
“So you ARE alive.”
I jump, letting go of the photo guiltily when a voice penetrates the fog of my memories. Quickly turning around, I see Trudy standing at the top of the stairs wearing a pair of bell-bottom jeans and a frilly pink button-down shirt.