{AVERY}
Lilydale Foundation Center...
From the outside, it almost looks normal. The pristine white marble columns, neatly trimmed vines and bushes, and an obscenely disgusting amount of roses everywhere. Roses, really. With a name like Lilydale they could have at least used some of the ridiculous amount of money they make to put actual fucking lilies in the garden. Maybe the roses are a metaphor– the sharp thorns being dangerous despite looking like pretty little harmless flowers.
If it wasn't for the huge black metal gates surrounding the property and guards with guns, you'd almost believe it was a nice place to be. Maybe that's what they want them to believe. Or at least... us.
"Avery, it looks lovely. Don't you think so?"
I look over at Margaret, my designated social worker. Her perfectly trimmed bob-styled brown hair makes her look older than she actually is. I'm sure it's all a ruse. You don't take up a job dealing with fucked up kids with the appearance of a young twenty-five year old. Especially when I'm only five years younger than her. She wants us to believe we're not as messed up as we are.
She has it all wrong though. If anything, her fitted power suit and expensive haircut remind me how privileged she is. Props to her for taking on a job like this, but I bet she's never known struggle in her entire life. She probably went to an Ivy League school and never had to worry about things like money or food. Hell, her parents are probably still together, sailing on a yacht somewhere in the Caribbean.
"It looks like Hell," I reply in a monotone voice.
Margaret plasters on a warm, encouraging smile. "It's really the best outcome. I think you'll like it here."
I scoff. "It's a glorified juvenile prison, Margie. Not an academic facility to give me a bright, shiny future. Let's not pretend it's more than what it is."
"But it might give you a future," she murmurs. "We were lucky to get this option. The other one…"
She trails off, swallowing her words and shifting uncomfortably. She doesn't have to finish the sentence. I already know what the alternative was.
Prison.
After all, isn't that where you go when you murder someone?
I still remember the Judge's voice, scolding me when he read out my sentencing in Court. I barely paid attention — too dazed and in disbelief from the mess I found myself in. From the moment the words "guilty" left the head juror's mouth, all I could hear was a buzzing in my head as everything else faded out around me.
The only reason I was even here was because a spot had opened up at the elusive Lilydale Foundation Center and some new baby attorney wanted to make his mark in the profession and argued for it. Who cared either way? I was already a mess and no
matter where I ended up, I was still going to be a mess.
The downside about coming here is they are going to try to rehabilitate me into a functioning member of society, fully funded by mysterious donations. Prison is supposed to do the same - if you ever get out. I suppose if you're a murderer, you're always going to be branded by that. It doesn't matter how much you change, you'll always be known for what you are.
I have no idea why people would want to donate to a facility like this. I guess if you are rich with cash to throw around, it doesn't matter where it goes. It looks good for you and you just claim it back as a tax write-off. Win-win situation.
The attorney told me I was lucky they even considered this option given the charges. Not to mention it's apparently extremely difficult to get a spot here.
Lucky.
I don't consider myself lucky. They just want to use my sob story to further themselves and pretend that this institution will change me into something successful — a phoenix rising from the ashes of pain. Imagine the newspapers in five years time if Isuddenly became this outstanding citizen after everything. The media moguls cashing in on my story. They don't give a shit
about us. They just want to exploit our pain for their own benefit.
Apparently, my team had high hopes for me, telling me over and over that this will change my life. I'll get a second chance, and one day, everything will be a distant memory. I just had a small fraction of hope that eventually my life would end and I could try again in the next lifetime if I'm fortunate enough to not end up in Hell.
"Let's just get this over with," I mutter to Margaret, watching as the front doors open and a man in a suit emerges. He trots perfectly down the steps and gives Margaret a smile.
"This must be Avery White," he says to her, ignoring the fact I'm standing right next to her.
Margaret puts a hand on my shoulder. "It is! She's very excited to be here."
I roll my eyes, shrugging her hand off. The man turns his attention to me, his welcoming expression dropping as his façade disappears.
"Ms. White, I trust you're prepared for your time here."
Slowly, I look up at him with a hard expression. "Tell me - how does one prepare for this?"
Margaret stiffens at my tone, brushing her hair behind her ear nervously. "We have all the paperwork here, Mr. Whittingham. The Court orders are annexed at the back which outlines the proposed plan for Avery's treatment and conditions of enrollment."
She hands over a black binder, my name scribbled neatly at the top. He collects the binder from her, tucking it under his arm.
"Right. Well, thank you for dropping her off. Ms. White, if you'd please follow me. I'll begin your orientation."
Margaret goes to reach for my arm, but quickly abandons that idea. "Best of luck with everything, Avery. I hope this helps and you find what you need."
I ignore her, following this twit inside. He's much easier to deal with than Margaret with her trembling emotions and pity. I don't even spare her a backwards glance as the door is closed behind me when I step inside.
The entrance is much like I expected it to be from the outside. Too much white, overly clean and bare. All the doors leading to other rooms are closed, and the office desk in the center of the room has more flowers decorating it.
"Avery White," Mr. Whittingham says, handing my binder to the woman behind the desk.
She's an older woman, her face aged with wrinkles. Like her colleague, she's almost completely void of emotion. I suppose dealing with lunatics and psychos on a daily basis will do that to you.
She hands him an envelope, glancing at me briefly as she takes in my appearance.
My black hair is styled in a Dutch braid - thanks to Margaret who insisted on playing hairdresser this morning. I have to give her props, at least she cares about her clients. She's probably one of the only people to actually ever care about me. But the
difference is she's being paid to give a shit. One day, that enthusiasm will wear off, and it will just be about the money for her as society drains her expectations.
The woman's brown eyes lock on mine, my gray ones reminding me I couldn't be more different than these elitists.
"The foundation Doctor has a copy of your medical history and would like to see you in the clinic tomorrow to discuss."
Her gaze lingers over the bandage wrapped tightly up my left arm, making it obvious she's read my file herself — what a nosey bitch.
"Lucky me," I say blandly.
She lets out a little sigh under her breath, turning her attention back to Mr. Whittingham. "The envelope has her access information, designated professional schedule and classes. I have confirmed that we have received her transcripts from Lake St. Louis High."
"Excellent," he replies, motioning for me to follow through a door to our left. "Thanks, Teddy."
Mr. Whittingham closes the door after me, and I notice every single door has a keypad access pad. He catches me checking them out, nodding towards one.
"Every door in the facility has a two part access system. A staff card and a code must be entered for it to open."
"Let me guess," I say. "You're telling me this as part of the lecture about not trying to escape. You know, just in case the guards with guns around the perimeter don't deter me."
Mr. Whittingham swipes his card and enters in a code on the next door, hiding the pad from view before opening the door and holding it for me. "You wouldn't be the first. Surprisingly, guns don't deter a lot of people here."
"I can't imagine why not," I reply sarcastically. "We're all mentally deranged, right?"
He casually walks alongside me, his slick blonde hair and blue eyes sticking out like a sore thumb with his black suit. "Call it whatever you want to make yourself comfortable. But Lilydale Foundation Center is an academic rehabilitation facility for young members of society. The first of its kind."
"Oh, please," I moan. "Save me the speech. It's a glorified money funneling place used to make yourselves look good. We're not saveable and you know it. But, the mission statement probably looks amazing and I bet your salary is impressive."
His lips twitch as he fights a smile. "I've heard it all before, Ms. White. Trust the process. You'd be surprised what can come out of Lilydale."
"I read the brochure in my holding cell. Lily Emerson-Dale killed herself due to mental illness, but was apparently an intelligent individual with great promise," I recite. "Her family had too much money so they created this facility to help others in her good name. But you just house prisoners here and disguise it as some type of privileged facility."
"We've had many individuals with similar circumstances to your own go through here and pass the process with flying colors. Many of whom are now successful individuals with new lives. Isn't that something you wish to strive for?"
I laugh dryly. "We all wish to be successful and happy, but life doesn't always go according to plan. Sometimes you can't save everyone. You can't save me."
He opens a final door. "We'll give it our best shot anyway. This is your dormitory, the Eastwood wing. There's only females in here, of course. The men are housed in the Westwood wing."
"Of course," I repeat sarcastically. "Can't risk the boys and girls mingling."
Mr. Whittingham ignores my comment, continuing. "It's just for housing. All members of the foundation co-exist during classes and free time."
"Free time. Sounds delightful."
"The staff will help you follow the routine, but you will have professional appointments in the morning, a small number of classes in the afternoon, then two hours of free time before dinner. After dinner, there's designated shower schedules before you return to your room for the evening."
My nose wrinkles at the access pads on the doors. "Where you get locked inside every night. Tell me, is there a fire plan in case the place burns down? Or do you just leave us locked in the rooms and claim it back on insurance?"
"The facility is up to code with all emergency procedures. There's a copy in your handbook in your room. I'm sure you will have plenty of time to read it."
I roll my eyes and step inside my room. It's basically the same as a prison cell anyway. Each room is numbered—mine is 213—-and it's barely bigger than a cell. There's a single bed in one corner, the frame bolted to the floor. In the opposite corner is a desk and chair, also secured. There's a second door to my left at the end of the bed, and Mr. Whittingham opens it.
"What? No access code?" I joke.
"The toilet and basin," he points out before closing the door. "Showers are down the corridor which we will show you later."
My eyes trail over the white walls, twitching at the painted floral artwork. Mr. Whittingham drops the envelope on the desk, turning to me.
"Read the contents of your envelope. It has all the information you need in it. There's also a copy of the handbook on the desk. You're scheduled for a psychiatric appointment in an hour. Someone will come to collect you."
I watch as he hovers in the doorway for a moment, hand on the frame. "I hope you enjoy your time with us, Ms. White. I think you'll grow to like it."
"Not likely," I mutter.
"Life is full of surprises. Be grateful someone cared about you enough to try. Most don't get that luxury. Welcome to Lilydale, Avery."