BELLAMY INSTITUTE: His Obsession

Scarlett's POV

"Get back here, bitch!"

My stepfather’s voice boomed so loud I felt the windows rattle in their frames. I didn't look back. I scrambled across the hardwood floor, my socks sliding as I tried to get away from him. I knew from experience what happened when Greg got his hands on me after he’d been drinking. He didn't just yell, he broke things around the house. And tonight, looking at the rage in his eyes, I knew I was the thing he wanted to break.

The whole thing started over something so stupid. Dinner wasn't ready. I tried to tell him that my bus had broken down on the way back from my shift at the library, but Greg didn't care about that. He only cared that his steak wasn't on the table the second he walked through the door.

"I'm sorry, Greg! I just got in!" I screamed, ducking behind the kitchen island to put some distance between us.

"I don't want excuses! I want my food!"

He lunged for me, his face red and slick with sweat. I bolted toward the stairs. My only thought was to get to my room and lock the door. Maybe if I stayed quiet, he’d eventually pass out on the couch. But I was panicking. My heart was drumming against my ribs, and my vision was starting to tunnel. I was halfway up when I tripped on my own feet.

Before I could scramble up, Greg was on me. He grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked me backward toward the landing. Then the blows started. He punched and kicked with everything he had. One hit caught me square in the ribs, knocking the breath out of me. Another landed on my cheek, making my ears ring. Everything started moving in slow motion.

"Please, stop!" I gasped, my voice cracking with pain.

He didn't stop. He raised his fist again, his eyes dark and empty. He looked like a stranger. Acting on pure instinct, I planted both my feet against his chest and shoved as hard as I could. I didn't want to hurt him, I just wanted him away from me. I just wanted to breathe.

Greg wasn't expecting the force of the kick. He stumbled back, his hands grasping at the air for a railing that wasn't there. I watched, frozen, as he tumbled backward down the long flight of stairs.

He hit the marble step at the very bottom with a sickening sound. I sat at the top of the stairs, gasping for air, my hands shaking so violently I had to grip my knees to stay upright. I waited for him to jump back up. I waited for the swearing to start again.

But the house was silent. He just lay there in an awkward pile.

"Greg?" I whispered. My voice sounded tiny.

I slowly crawled down the stairs, my body aching from where he’d kicked me. As I got closer, I saw a dark, thick pool of red spreading across the white marble. It was coming from the back of his head. I realized then that his skull must have cracked on impact.

I scrambled to his side, my breath coming in ragged sobs. I reached out to touch his shoulder, and my fingers came away wet and stained. A cold, numbing sensation washed over me. I was a murderer. It didn't matter that it was an accident, I had ended a life.

A sharp, loud knock at the front door made my heart nearly stop.

"Police! Open up!"

I stumbled to the door and pulled it open. I didn't even think to hide the blood on my hands. Two officers were standing there. The older one with a gray mustache looked at me and immediately put his hand on his holster.

"We had a report from a neighbor about a disturbance," he said. Then his eyes dropped to my hands. "Miss, what happened? Why are you covered in blood?"

I couldn't speak. My throat felt like it was full of sand. I just pointed toward the hallway. The officer pushed past me and rushed to Greg, checking for a pulse.

"Backup! I need an ambulance and backup!" he shouted into his radio. He looked back at me, his face hardening. "Miss, don't move. Put your hands behind your back."

"It was an accident," I whispered. He wasn't listening.

The metal cuffs bit into my wrists. I watched from the back of a patrol car as more lights flashed against the walls of my home. It felt like a dream, a nightmare I couldn't wake up from. I had just finished high school. I was supposed to start college in the fall. How was this happening to me?

I spent two months in a holding cell while lawyers fought over my life. They asked me the same questions until I wanted to scream.

"Did you mean to push him?"

"Why didn't you call for help sooner?"

Greg had been a successful businessman with a lot of friends, so the prosecution worked hard to make me look like a rebellious teen with a temper. They didn't care about the bruises on my ribs. They only cared that a prominent man was dead.

On the day of my sentencing, the courtroom felt freezing. I stood there in a cheap suit my public defender had found for me, staring at the floor.

"Scarlett Rowe," the judge said. "While the court acknowledges the history of domestic issues in your home, a life has been lost. However, given your age, I am offering a chance at rehabilitation."

I held my breath.

"You are sentenced to two years at the Bellamy Institute. If you fail to complete the program or break the rules, you will be transferred to a state prison for ten years."

I’d never heard of Bellamy. I figured it was just a fancy name for a juvie center. My lawyer leaned in and whispered, "It’s a reform school for high-profile cases. It’s better than prison, Scarlett. Take it."

I didn't have a choice. I nodded, and the guards led me away.

The next morning, I was bundled into the back of a plain white van. My wrists were cuffed again, and my ankles were shackled. I knew I looked like a mess. My red hair was greasy, my skin was pale, and the bruise on my cheek had turned an ugly yellow.

I sat on a hard bench as we pulled out of the city. I watched the tall buildings disappear through the small, grated window. We drove for hours, leaving the suburbs behind for thick, dark forests.

I felt sick to my stomach. I didn't know what a reform school really meant, but the way the guards looked at me made me feel like it was something much worse than a regular school.

Finally, the van slowed down. I pressed my face to the glass and saw long, private roads lined with tall fences and electric wire. At the end of the road stood a massive building made of dark stone.

A large iron gate creaked open ominously.