“That was never a lie,” he says.
“I’ve figured you out, you know? You’re a coward. No wonder you jumped at the chance to come here. You’re just running away from something.”
He scoffs. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, I do. You’re wearing a wedding ring. You have a family. But you left, for months, and leaving made you happy, remember? You’re just another guy who abandoned his family.”
A pale fire shines in his eyes now. “Fine,” he says. “Let’s go right down the list, if that’s what you want.” He flips open another file and examines its contents. “Waylon Leland. Had motive, was a drunk, history of violence. He snuck in at night and stabbed the Prophet in the belly with his bowie knife.”
“What?” My head shoots up. “That’s not—”
“What about Constance, your sister? By all accounts a very maladjusted young girl, physically stunted, puberty delayed. She would’ve seen what happened to you and wanted to do something to protect you. She would’ve known she was next. She went into the Prophet’s bedroom that night and smashed a lantern over his bed and set him on fire.”
I rise from my bunk, looking down on him, the memory of the fire burning in my chest, the heat of it charging my veins.
“Maybe you did it, huh?” I shout. “Maybe you snuck in that night and lit the fire and smothered the Prophet with his own pillow, because you’re clearly schizo. Look! I’ve struck on it. You’re a fraud. You’re as crazy as you tell everyone they are.”
“Or what about Jude?” he continues as though he hasn’t heard me. “Had motive, access, weapons, and let’s face facts, wasn’t the brightest bulb, was he? It was pretty easy to persuade him to come to the Community with you that night, wasn’t it? It couldn’t have been difficult to get him to kill the Prophet for you.”
“YOU SHUT YOUR GODDAMN MOUTH!”
“You’re going to have to stop yelling,” he says, disturbingly calm.
“I’M GONNA HAVE TO START YELLING AND NEVER, EVER STOP!” I scream.
He doesn’t call for a guard but Officer Prosser comes anyway. The cell door opens, and she grips me by my shoulders and slams me hard to the grated floor. That knocks the wind out of me for a moment. I hear the metal slam of my door closing. After I get my breath back, I fill my lungs and scream again, hurling my arms against the floor.
“Tranq her,” I hear the doctor say from outside the cell door.
“She can’t exactly damage anything,” Officer Prosser says.
“She can damage herself.”
“That’s higher than my pay grade.”
Everyone always assumes it’s with hands that people disobey. The Prophet thought so, too. If only he knew, if only everyone knew, my hands were never the source of my disobedience.
Chapter 32
“Minnow, you have to try harder to control these outbursts,” Mrs. New says.
I’m in her office again, in the wooden chair opposite her desk. I feel groggy and itchy, but I can’t figure out where. Like it’s my soul that itches.
“Are you gonna suspend me from reading class?” I ask.
“Your teacher has made the case that you be given leniency,” she says. “And I think I agree with her. This isn’t the first time you’ve left a counseling session in distress. I’m going to recommend you begin seeing another counselor.”
“No!” I bark.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s my choice. You said it was my choice. Well, I choose him.”
“Look what happened, Minnow,” she says in a measured tone. “Look what you’ve done to yourself.”
I look down at my arms. They’re twined with white bandages. Beneath, the purple of new bruises are visible up to my elbows. The skin around my stumps pulled apart, so in the infirmary, they had to use staples.
“You put staples in me?” I remember asking the nurse after I woke up from sedation.
“It’s routine,” she said.
“Staples?” I asked. “Let me see them. No, I don’t want to. God, this place is nuts.” They put something on my tongue that melted away like powder and I went very relaxed. I didn’t care as much about the staples anymore.
“I did this to myself,” I say to Mrs. New. “Not Dr. Wilson. He was just trying to help.” The words still taste bitter in my mouth, but I swallow them because I need to see him again, to get him off the trail of my mother and Constance and Waylon and Jude.
“You could’ve seriously injured yourself.” She shakes her head. “As it is, Dr. Wilson will be taking an indeterminate break from your case while another caseworker evaluates his progress.”
“For how long?” I ask, trying to push through the fog the pill covered me in.
“However long it takes.”
I don’t move. My muscles are locked in loose submission. My bottom lip nestles under my top, and I cry.