Page 89 of Unbound
"He could die."
"Then his parents will be informed of the risks they're taking by insisting on continued treatment."
I was barely conscious, floating on whatever they'd given me for the pain, but I heard every word. Understood finally: they would kill me if my parents allowed it.
And my parents would allow it.
Better dead than gay. They'd always believed that. Trained me to believe it too.
They hadn't sent me here to fix me. They'd sent me here to eliminate the problem. If I couldn't be cured, I could be erased.
The truth was almost a relief. At least now I knew.
WEEK EIGHT
I woke in the medical wing to the sound of monitors beeping steadily. IV in my arm, heart monitor showing waves I couldn't interpret.
Max was somehow sitting in the chair beside my bed.
“He’s coming for you," he said quietly.
"Who?" My voice was barely a whisper.
“Him. Adrian. There's a legal case. Federal court."
I couldn't process this. Words without meaning.
"How do you know?" I asked, squinting at him. The edges of his form seemed blurry, like looking through water.
Max smiled sadly. "Because you know. Deep down, you know Adrian’s fighting like hell to get you out."
"I don't understand."
"You will, soon.” He stood, and I noticed for the first time that he cast no shadow in the harsh medical lighting. "Hold on just a little longer, Jesse. They're almost here."
When I blinked, the chair was empty. Had been empty the whole time.
No Max. No friend whispering reassurance. Just me and my broken mind, doing whatever it could to keep me breathing until rescue arrived.
I started crying then, silent tears that wouldn't stop. Even my hallucinations were abandoning me now.
The director appeared an hour later with a lawyer, both furious. Federal court order in hand: Jesse Miller to be released immediately into protective custody.
Medical evaluation had shown evidence of torture. The facility was under federal investigation. My parents were being charged with child endangerment.
The director was forced to comply or face federal charges himself.
They gave me my clothes. Everything hung loose now, my body carved away by weeks of minimal food and maximum stress. My hands shook too much to button my shirt.
A nurse helped, her eyes sad. "I'm sorry. We tried to stop it, they wouldn't listen."
"You didn't try hard enough."
She flinched but didn't argue.
They took me to the lobby, paperwork signed with signatures I could barely manage. My hands wouldn't stop trembling.
The door opened to Montana sunlight. I shielded my eyes, hadn't seen this much light in weeks. Everything was too bright, too loud, too much.
