Scar Island(4)

He reached for something from his desk and slid it onto the Sinner’s Sorrow’s little writing surface: a pen, and a blank piece of paper.

“At Slabhenge, all of our boys write a letter home to Mommy and Daddy every day. To let them know that you are safe and sound and that their investment is paying off. The mail goes out in the morning, and yours is the last letter we need.”

“What do you want me to say?”

The Admiral’s eyebrows dropped. The corner kid shuffled over and squeezed the back of Jonathan’s arm in a hard, vicious pinch. “Sir!” he spat into Jonathan’s ear.

Jonathan tried to shift from knee to knee to ease the growing pain.

“What do you want me to say, sir?”

The Admiral turned his hands palm up and spread his fingers.

“Whatever you like.”

Jonathan frowned at the paper and thought of all the things he’d like to say to his parents.

“I can’t write with my hands cuffed, sir.”

“Of course not.” The Admiral tossed a heavy ring of keys to the chubby kid, who jangled and fumbled behind Jonathan until there was a click and Jonathan felt his hands finally swing free. He rubbed his sore wrists and wiggled his stiff shoulder sockets. With a quick glance at the Admiral, he picked up the pen and scribbled out a few sentences, then folded the paper and handed it to him.

The Admiral unfolded the paper.

“Dear Mom and Dad,” he read aloud. “This place is just as terrible as I deserve. Give my love to Sophia. Jonathan. Hmm.” The Admiral shook his head and clicked his tongue. “No, no, this won’t do. Try it again, Jonathan Grisby. You can say whatever you wish, of course, but you cannot speak poorly of our fine institution. We don’t want them regretting the difficult decision they made to send you here. So, again, without the parts about Slabhenge.” The Admiral slid another blank piece of paper across the desk.

“My parents didn’t send me here. Sir.” Jonathan knew that it wouldn’t help him at all to argue, but he felt he had to say it. “A judge did.”

The room hung in taut silence.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” the Admiral asked, and his voice was darkly low and quiet. Jonathan didn’t answer. “Yes. A judge sentenced you to a reformatory for your heinous crime. But he gave your parents several choices, did he not? And they chose Slabhenge, did they not?”

Jonathan swallowed. All of his trembling parts screamed at him to let it go. But he couldn’t.

“Yes, sir. But … only because it was the cheapest. They had to … to pay for half, and we don’t have—”

“Enough!” the Admiral interrupted. He bent down low so Jonathan could look into his shiny, bloodshot eyes. “Everything that I wish or need to know about you and your pathetic life, I have already read. You are here because they sent you. And, yes, we save money at the same time that we save souls here at Slabhenge—even souls not worth saving. Since I now know how very frugal you are, I shall make extra certain that we don’t waste a single unnecessary dime on your care, other than the discipline required to correct your corrupted character. Now, the letter!”

Jonathan resisted the urge to wipe the spittle off his face that had flown there from the Admiral’s mouth. He blinked down at the paper through the sweat that was dripping into his eyes. His knees throbbed. He scrawled another message and handed it to the Admiral.

“No,” the Admiral said after reading it. All the teasing was gone from his voice. “Longer. More pleasant. And mention our food.”

“What food, sir?”

“Our delicious and nourishing food.”

“But I haven’t had any food, sir. And I’m starving.” Jonathan’s stomach growled as he spoke.

The Admiral ground his teeth and blinked his eyes slowly. “Write the letter, Jonathan Grisby. Then dinner.”

It took Jonathan seven tries to write a letter that the Admiral would accept. By the time he was done, his stomach was rumbling loud enough for all three of them to hear, and the boy in the corner was glaring at him with open hatred. The Admiral had gone through three more gold-wrapped chocolates.

“There,” the Admiral said, folding up the final letter and slipping it into an envelope. “It shouldn’t have been that hard. Awful things happen to boys with awful attitudes.”

Too late, Jonathan wanted to answer, but he bit his lip and kept his eyes on the cracks between the stone blocks of the floor. His hair dangled down in front of his eyes and he let it stay.

“Brandy,” the Admiral said, and Jonathan heard the kid hurry to fill his glass. The Admiral walked to the door and opened it.

“Mr. Warwick. Show Jonathan Grisby to his quarters.”

“Yes, sir, straight away.”

Jonathan’s head shot up.

“What about my dinner?”

A pair of rough hands pulled him up from the agony of the Sinner’s Sorrow and yanked him toward the door. The Admiral yawned as Jonathan was paraded past. He held out his hand to stop them, his fingers pressing into Jonathan’s chest. He smacked his lips and leaned down to speak into his face. The sour mix of chocolate and liquor on his hot breath made Jonathan’s stomach curl.

“Do you really think a boy who wastes six pieces of paper to write a simple letter deserves to be spoiled with food? Hmmm?” Jonathan’s heart sank into his aching belly. The Admiral’s eyes slithered to the man who was pushing Jonathan from behind. “No pillow for this one, Mr. Warwick. He doesn’t have a brain worth cushioning.”