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Bianaca

The gates sprouted from the ground like jagged, silver teeth. Ominous structures, like keen claws preparing to devour you. Once you entered, you were never able to leave.

And no, despite popular belief, I did not have a propensity for dramatics.

I stared up at the building silhouetted in the waning sunlight.

The steeply curved roof was a strange combination of shingles, bricks, and cement blocks. Row after row of windows lined the stone siding, broken apart only by immense doors, nearly two stories high, with golden knockers.

Tory’s School for Troubled Teens.

And my new home.

I glanced back at the taxi idling in the parking lot. My mind warred with my body. The latter wanted me to run—run fast and run far—while my mind warned me of the consequences.

My mind won the grueling battle.

Taking a shuddering breath, I slung my duffle bag over my shoulder and walked to the wrought-iron gates. This close, I could depict twin gargoyles guarding the entrance.

Stone bodies with intricate wings crafted on either side. Fangs the size of my head. Pinprick black eyes.

I shuddered instinctively, backing away from the malicious stone creatures.

The grounds of the school were just as immaculate, carefully manicured greenery with shrubs adorning the side of the building. I could see a forest peeking out from behind the school, a rich tapestry of greens and the beginnings of yellow. Fall was fast approaching, bringing with it a frigid chill.

Craning my neck, I studied the building once more. Where were the students? The professors?

The oppressive silence sent goosebumps racing down my arms. Goosebumps that had little to do with the cold wind.

After taking another deep breath, I pulled out the school’s pamphlet.

I couldn’t recall where or how I had gotten the pamphlet. It seemed to have materialized out of thin air.

Mom always said I was a troubled child, and Steve, the asshole, agreed. After the incident…

Well, Mom said she was left with no other choice.

And Steve, of course, had provided the funds to send me away. He couldn’t provide food on the table, but money to send his stepdaughter to boarding school? Magic!

Mom didn’t believe me when I claimed he must’ve robbed a bank.

The pamphlet showed a picturesque school with a shining sun and shining smiles and shining people. Of course, they placed the one Hispanic person on the cover.

Because why not?

Instructions indicated for me to wait outside until my tour guide arrived. My thin jacket did little to quell the frosty air.

Mom would’ve reprimanded me for not wearing warmer clothes.

“You’re eighteen now,” she would scold, slapping me with a dishtowel. “Act like it.”

Or, at least, she would’ve done that. Until Steve. Until our lives became so fucked up to the point I could hardly recognize it anymore.

I had to remind myself that Mom wasn’t here. She hadn’t bothered to see her own daughter, her only child, off. Instead, she had chosen Steve the Asshole. She always chose him.

Always believed him.