Episode 10: The Place They Send Broken Things
1099 Words
Rain followed him all the way there.
It clung to the windows of the police car in restless streams, distorting the city beyond the glass into blurred fragments of light and shadow. Buildings stretched and melted beneath the storm, their shapes dissolving every time water slid across the surface.
The world outside looked unreal.
Distant.
Like something happening to someone else.
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He sat in silence during the entire drive.
No resistance.
No questions.
No visible fear.
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Only stillness.
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The officer seated across from him watched carefully, though he tried not to make it obvious. Every few minutes, his eyes drifted toward the boy’s cuffed hands resting calmly in his lap—as if waiting for sudden violence, sudden instability, something that would justify the unease filling the small vehicle.
Nothing happened.
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That frightened him more.
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Most children cried after hurting someone.
Most children begged.
Denied.
Collapsed beneath the weight of consequences.
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This boy simply stared out at the rain as though he had already accepted whatever came next.
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“You understand where they’re taking you?”
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The question finally broke the silence.
Soft.
Careful.
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His gaze remained fixed on the window.
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“Yes.”
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Another pause.
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“And that doesn’t bother you?”
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For the first time since entering the car, he blinked slowly.
Not confused by the question—
But by the assumption behind it.
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“It bothers my father.”
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The officer frowned faintly.
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“And you?”
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Silence settled again.
Long enough to become answer enough.
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Outside, thunder rolled across the darkened sky.
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The car turned sharply through iron gates.
Tall.
Black.
Cold.
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The building beyond them emerged gradually through the rain.
Large enough to resemble a private academy from a distance, though the illusion collapsed the closer they came. The windows were too narrow. The walls too pale. The atmosphere too quiet in the wrong way.
Nothing about the place felt alive.
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A psychiatric rehabilitation facility.
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Or, as society preferred to call it—
A place for difficult children.
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The car stopped.
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One of the officers opened the door.
Cold rain immediately rushed inside, carrying with it the sterile scent of wet concrete and distant antiseptic.
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He stepped out without hesitation.
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Water soaked through his clothes almost instantly, darkening the fabric as rain slid slowly down the side of his face. The storm muffled everything around him—the footsteps, the voices, the metallic sound of the gate closing behind them.
For a brief moment, the world became nothing but rain.
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Then—
A hand settled against his shoulder.
Firm.
Professional.
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“This way.”
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He followed.
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The inside of the facility was warm.
Too warm.
The artificial heat wrapped around him immediately, carrying the faint smell of disinfectant, old paper, and something else beneath it all—
Medication.
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The lights overhead buzzed softly.
Every hallway looked identical.
White walls.
White floors.
White doors.
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It reminded him of being erased.
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Doctors greeted them at reception with practiced expressions—the kind designed to appear compassionate without becoming emotionally involved.
They spoke quietly with the officers.
Used words like:
“violent episode.”
“unstable tendencies.”
“evaluation.”
“risk assessment.”
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He listened without reacting.
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Because none of the words mattered.
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Only one thing did.
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Did she go back safely?
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The thought returned again and again beneath everything else, persistent enough to survive exhaustion, survive the storm, survive the reality unfolding around him.
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A nurse crouched slightly in front of him.
She smiled gently.
Too gently.
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“Do you know your name?”
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His eyes lifted toward her slowly.
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“Yes.”
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“And would you like to tell me?”
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A pause.
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Then quietly—
He did.
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The nurse wrote something down.
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“Do you know why you’re here?”
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“Yes.”
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“And why is that?”
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This time, he looked away.
Not avoiding the question.
Simply searching for the most accurate answer.
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Finally—
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“Because I stayed.”
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The nurse’s pen slowed.
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“I’m sorry?”
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He said nothing else.
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Because explaining it properly would require explaining her.
And something deep inside him refused to allow strangers near that part of the night.
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A door opened somewhere down the hall.
Another patient screamed.
High-pitched.
Broken.
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No one reacted.
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The sound echoed briefly through the facility before disappearing into the same silence that swallowed everything else.
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The nurse stood again.
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“We’ll take good care of you here.”
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The statement felt rehearsed.
Empty.
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He looked past her toward the long hallway disappearing deeper into the building.
Toward locked doors and observation windows and people who believed the human mind could be repaired through routine and medication.
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Then, slowly—
He asked the only question that mattered.
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“Can I keep my drawings?”
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The nurse hesitated.
Clearly not expecting that.
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“Your… drawings?”
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A small nod.
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“The papers in my room.”
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Something about the request softened her expression slightly.
Perhaps because it sounded normal.
Childlike.
Safe.
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“I’ll ask your father to bring them.”
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His gaze lowered again.
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Father.
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The word settled heavily inside him.
Not comforting.
Never comforting.
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Because even now—
Even after everything—
He already knew what his father saw when he looked at him.
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A problem.
A stain.
A threat to the family name wrapped in expensive clothing and polite silence.
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The realization no longer hurt.
Not really.
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But another thought did.
Quietly.
Persistently.
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Would she remember him?
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The question lingered inside the sterile white room long after the nurse led him away.
Long after the door locked behind him with a hollow metallic click.
Long after the storm outside finally began to fade.
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Because somewhere beyond the walls of that facility—
A girl who hated being abandoned sat awake beneath a dark window, unable to understand why the silence inside her chest suddenly felt unbearable.
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And inside a locked room meant for broken children—
A boy closed his eyes and pictured her face from memory.
Every line.
Every shadow.
Every detail.
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Terrified—
Not of punishment.
Not of isolation.
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But of forgetting.
- Writer
