Page 141 of Hell Hath No Fury

ASHES FALLING

BT URRUELA

CHAPTER ONE

“Now, Ms. Dillinger … can you explain to me what compelled you to once again disregard the rules set forth for our residents, and once again, find yourself in my office, in that chair, well-worn from your rear?” The harshness of Dr McCormick’s words lingered. Her frown lines were thick, and it was without doubt that I had added to them over the years that I’d known the old broad. It wasn’t her fault … She was just a part of the system, and I was and had always been one to rage against my oppressors. Even the relatively nice ones.

I sat across the desk from her, her lips turned down, jutting to the floor in a constant scowl. I wasn’t solely responsible for all of the wear that showed on her face; a lot of it was caused by two plus decades on the job at the Carvill Children’s Home. “I just don’t understand this. Aren’t you exhausted? I know I am.” She motioned to the fresh black eye I had received from Kammie Tagaloa not ten minutes ago, the girl who sat just beside me in the office that day. She often found herself in that office right along with me, but I was always the one singled out. Maybe because I was older, if only by a year. Or maybe it was because I could never seem to behave myself. Not at Carvill. Not at any of the dozen or so foster homes I’d spent time in during my bleak youth. Not during the few years I had with my mom and dad before they kicked the bucket.

Kammie huffed and rolled her eyes. She crossed her big arms and flashed me a quick scowl, her bottom lip fat and encrusted with dried blood.

I just picked at my nails, in desperate need of a manicure. I noted to myself that I’d have to make my best friend, Monica, give me one once I got back to our room, especially after the outdoor-labor-masquerading-as-punishment that would surely come for my latest fight with Kammie and my perpetual bad attitude.

“Am I talking to myself here?” Dr. McCormick raised her voice, an added hint of annoyance to her tone as she lifted her palms to the ceiling.

Kammie scoffed. “Looks like it.”

Dr. McCormick shot her pointer toward Kammie. “You watch it, young lady!” The doctor scanned our faces for a moment and then added, “Why can’t you two just get along? It’s been years of this.Years. What is the issue here? Help me understand!”

Kammie snorted, putting up one finger. “Well, first off, she’s a bitch,” another finger, “second, she started it.”

“Fuck you!” I yelled, standing from my chair violently.

Kammie stood too, balling her fists. “Fuckyou, cunt! You want another black eye?”

“Enough!” Dr. McCormick stood too, slamming her palms against the desk which caused us both to flinch. “Sit down now!” she barked.

We begrudgingly did as we were told.

The door swung open, and Mr. Malcolm stood on the other side, worry lines etched in his forehead. “Everything all right in here?” he asked, his voice low and silky smooth like Barry White. He looked a lot like Barry White too with those classic good looks and the full beard, salt and peppered with age. His name was Malcolm Little, but he went by Mr. Malcolm.

“Yes, Malcolm, thank you. Can you please escort Kammie here back to the residential building?”

“Of course,” Mr. Malcolm replied, opening the door wider and putting his back to it. He looked toward Kammie and cleared his throat.

Kammie shot me a quick sneer as she rose to her feet.

“Ms. Tagaloa, let’s keep the dirty looks to ourselves, huh?” Dr. McCormick shot a look toward Kammie over the frames of her glasses, her wispy auburn hair spilling over them.

Once Kammie and Mr. Malcolm left the room, the door closing behind them, Dr. McCormick scanned my features as she did when she was about to go full psychologist on me.

“You’re eighteen on Sunday, Ashe … so close to getting out of here. Why is it so hard for you to keep your nose clean?”

“You think I don’t know how close I am to getting out of this shithole? You think I don’t try to avoid that fat bitch?”

Dr. McCormick let out a heavy sigh, glancing quickly toward the clock on the wall. “This ‘shithole’ has been your only home for the past three years. I would think you’d feel a bit fonder toward it.”

“You’d think wrong, then,” I folded my arms.

She folded hers too. “Let’s watch the language and the tone, Ms. Dillinger. You’re still ours for another week. That means you still play by our rules.”

“I appreciate this place putting a roof over my head and food on my plate. I do. I’m just saying … I’ve been here or a place just like it for most of my life. Stuck. As if that’s not bad enough, for most of my time here, Kammie Tagaloa has made my life a living hell, and you all haven’t done a damn thing about it. A slap on the wrist here. A verbal warning there. Some weed pulling at best. When are you actually going to do something about her messing with me constantly? When are you gonna stop making me fight my way to a little respect around here?”

She grabbed a pen from the desktop and started drumming it. She did that when she was getting worked up. I tried not to grin.

“You could start by not letting violence always be your go-to. Have you ever sat down and tried to talk to Kammie? Work out your differences?”

I chuckled. “What kind of kumbaya bullshit are you spewing?”