Page 19 of Quiet Rage
That was Tiana’s text yesterday. She didn’t say much, but the message came through. Somehow, she and her friends went through with locking Tamson in a closet at school.
I don’t want to know how—the less I know, the better. Bullying somebody online is one thing, but actually putting hands on them, locking them up? That’s a little different, with bigger stakes. I’m not trying to get too deeply involved. This wasn’t even my idea, after all. I only approved it.
Right. Does that make you feel better?
Fuck. All night, that’s what I’ve been struggling with. The nagging, nonstop voice in my head. Reminding me what Tamson is suffering through. Not that it’s my problem. Not that I put her in that closet. My conscience won’t leave me alone, either way.
I’m doing this because Dad wants me to.
That used to be enough in the past. Not even that long ago. I sure as hell didn’t have a moment of regret after beating the shit out of her dad, did I? I turned off any thoughts or feelings that might get in the way of my duty. It’s like I forgot how to do that. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I know the answer, obviously. It’s her. Tamson. She happened, and instead of doing the smart thing by forcing myself to shut down the habit of thinking about her so much, I totally lost sight of the big picture. I let her become an obsession, and now I’m trapped.
On the one hand, she’s not my problem and I’m not the one who locked her in a closet.
On the other hand, I can’t make myself forget the way she makes the noise in my head go quiet. The rage I’ve lived with so long it’s become a part of me smooths out into something bearable when I’m in her presence. I guess part of that could be because I’ve poured so much of my energy into thinking about her, imagining what I could do to her.
But never, not even when I’m with my friends, not when I’m in the middle of a party and miles away from sober, do I feel peaceful. Tamson is the closest thing to peace.
And she’s been haunting me since last night worse than ever, to the point where my nerves are ready to shred. I need to do something to get rid of this feeling, like there’s something dangerous pacing in me. An animal that needs to be set free, even if it will tear shit to pieces. I would rather have that happen than be torn to pieces myself. That’s exactly how this feels. Like I’m being ripped apart.
It could be the sleep I didn’t get last night making it hard to string my thoughts together as I sit up with a groan and rub my eyes with my fists. I’m so tired I feel sick to my stomach, but I push through it because the thought of Tamson locked in a closet makes it impossible to sit still. I have to get up, have to try like hell to get in the shower.
For a while, I stand with my forearms against the wall and my head resting on them while water that feels like ice-cold needles pummels my shoulders and back. Not my favorite way to get my brain moving faster, but it works. I feel almost human by the time I’m finished, drying off quickly, then throwing on a sweater and jeans.
No matter what I do, no matter where I am in the house, I see her in front of me. I can imagine her crying, begging for help, screaming until her voice breaks. And there’s nothing for her to drink, is there? She has to be suffering.
I don’t know who I hate more as I head out into the damp, gray morning. Do I hate her for making me care? Or do I loathe myself for being weak and pathetic enough to make the familiar drive to school on an unfamiliar day?
My teeth grind hard enough to make my jaw ache. Turning on the stereo and cranking up the hardest, most pounding music I can find doesn’t help much to ease my anger, my resentment. Ishouldn’t have let them do this. Maybe I would’ve been able to sleep last night if I had said no, if I had told them to think of something else. It’s not like they wouldn’t have. I would swear Tiana has turned tormenting Tamson into her life’s mission.
Discomfort makes me shift in my seat when I try to imagine what Tamson’s going through in there. If anything happened to her, if she got hurt or sick or something because of this, it’s on my head. I wouldn’t come out and admit that, but I would feel it. It would haunt me. Not because I give a shit about her or anything, but because she didn’t really do anything to deserve this except being born the daughter of a gambler who doesn’t know his limits. That’s it. That’s all she did. She must’ve been so scared, thrown into a closet and abandoned yesterday. I wonder how long it took her to stop crying.
Fuck it. If anyone’s going to make her cry, it’s me.
The janitor closet next to the science lab.I see it in my head as I park close to the quad. One of the good things about showing up here on Saturday: the parking options. That means it doesn’t take long to reach the science building and go straight to the lab. There is a janitor’s closet next to it, across from the girls’ bathroom. I see why they chose this particular closet. It was probably the most logical place, since she has class here on Friday afternoons.
Sure enough, the knob won’t turn under my hand. When I unlock it, I’m not sure what to expect. Is she going to come flying out, screaming, clawing at me? Will she beg and weep? All I can do is open the door and find out.
The first thing that hits me is the smell—there’s a big bucket in the corner, which she must have used. Of course she did. She’s been in here for more than eighteen hours. The lightflowing in from behind me illuminates a small, trembling heap in the opposite corner. She’s sleeping, curled in a ball, shaking from the cold. Even in sleep, she can’t escape her misery. They stripped her down to her underwear—who the fuck told them to do that?
Rage bursts in me, leaping to life in an inferno that could burn me to a crisp if I’m not careful. I didn’t tell them to strip her to her underwear. She must be freezing in here. There’s nothing between her skin and the floor, either. She’s using a roll of paper towels as a pillow, the one little bit of comfort she managed to find.
And she’s still sleeping as I take a step into the closet, sort of lost over what happens next.
This is my fault. I’m the one who left her like this, shaking, even whimpering a little. Arms wrapped tight around herself, knees pulled up as close to her chest as she can get them. How many hours must she have spent rocking back and forth, trying to comfort herself over something I approved?
It’s not my fault. I didn’t do this. Taking a deep breath, I center myself. I remind myself what this is all about. I have nothing to do with it, and besides, I didn’t put the wheels in motion. I’m following orders.
Finally, I have to make a move. “Hey. Wake up.” When all she does is whimper, I nudge her with the toe of my sneaker. “I said wake up. What are you doing in here?” Because even now, I can’t claim this. She won’t get an apology, and she won’t get an explanation. It’s enough that I showed up.
She snaps awake all at once, gasping and bleary-eyed, but alert, as she sits bolt upright and blinks hard against the light thatmust be a change compared to what she’s lived through since yesterday afternoon.
Finally, she recognizes me, and her mouth falls open. “Why are you here?”
Good question. I take a breath, ready to give her a quick excuse, but she’s quicker. Out of the two of us, she’s the one who got sleep last night.
“Son of a bitch!” She’s on her feet before I know it, eyes red and filling with tears. “I should’ve known! You did this! Or you told them to! I hate you, you bastard! I fucking hate you, all of you!”
