Page 67 of Unbound
I opened my mouth to speak, to try to explain, but my father cut me off.
"Silence. You've said enough for one day."
Brother Matthews leaned forward, his grey beard wagging as he shook his head. "The Devil has his claws in deep this time, David. Deeper than before."
Before. They were talking about before.
My mother's sob was audible. "After everything we did. After all that progress. How could you—" She couldn't finish, dissolved into tears.
"The boy needs fixing," Brother Klein said bluntly. "Real fixing this time. Not half-measures."
Pastor Caldwell nodded gravely. "I've spoken with Dr. Harrison at Restoration Ridge. They have an opening. Given the... public nature of this relapse, he's agreed to an extended program."
My blood turned to ice. Restoration Ridge. The name hit me like a physical blow, bringing with it a rush of memories I'd spent years trying to suppress.
"How long?" my father asked.
"A full year minimum. Dr. Harrison believes that with sustained treatment, they can ensure this never happens again."
A year. I barely survived eight months the first time. A year would kill me.
"He leaves Saturday morning," Pastor Caldwell continued. "I'll take him myself to ensure there are no... complications."
Saturday. Tomorrow was Friday. I had less than two days.
The room spun. I gripped the arms of my chair, trying to breathe, trying not to let them see my panic.
"What if it doesn't work this time?" my mother whispered. "What if he's too far gone?"
My father's voice was stone. "Then we keep him there until it does. However long it takes."
"And if that's not enough?" Brother Matthews asked quietly.
The silence stretched until my father spoke again, each word a nail in my coffin. "Then he's dead to us anyway."
I must have made a sound—a gasp, a whimper, something—because all eyes turned to me.
"Do you have something to say, son?" Pastor Caldwell asked.
I tried to speak, tried to find words, but my throat had closed completely. My vision was tunnelling, black spots dancing at the edges.
"I think he understands," my father said with satisfaction. "Brother Klein, would you help me escort him to his room? He needs time to pray and reflect on what he's done."
They flanked me up the stairs like I was a prisoner being led to execution. Maybe I was.
My childhood bedroom door stood open. They'd been busy while we were on our way back—everything was gone. My computer, my phone charger, my books, even my Bible. The shelves stood empty, the desk bare.
“They’ve removed anything you might use to harm yourself or contact the outside world," my father explained. "Dr. Harrison's recommendations."
Brother Klein nodded approvingly. "Wise precautions."
They ushered me inside. The lock clicked behind me—a sound I remembered from before, from the first time.
I was alone.
The room looked like a shrine to someone who'd died young. My childhood bed with its navy blue comforter. The awards covering one wall—"Most Devoted Youth," "Perfect Attendance," "Scripture Memory Champion." Photos from before I turned fourteen, showing a smiling, innocent boy who believed everything he was told.
Nothing from after Restoration Ridge. They'd erased that version of me, the one who'd survived and learned to perform their expectations perfectly. Now they'd erase this version too—the one who'd dared to think for himself, to feel something real.
