I'll Be Good for You

Behind the wheel, Miley flicked a glance at me through the rearview mirror.

"It's been a year, Delia. You've gone real quiet. Guess that center actually knocked some sense into you," she said.

I sat stiffly in the backseat, keeping my expression neutral even as a knot of unease twisted in my gut.

"I'm not fighting anymore, Miley."

Disdain flickered across her face as she let out a scoff. "You better mean what you said. Or I won't think twice about dragging your ass right back there."

When Miley said she was sending me back to the residential treatment center, a shiver shot through me, and I couldn't stop shaking.

That place wasn't a "residential treatment center". It was a center of torment.

I stayed quiet, nodding like the obedient puppet she wanted me to be.

This was the first time I didn't snap back at Miley. That seemed to please her. It only reinforced her belief that sending me to a residential treatment center had been the right decision.

The moment we stepped inside the house, she reached for my backpack. However, as soon as her hand brushed my shoulder, I instinctively stepped back, avoiding her touch. My face was drained of color.

Catching her confused gaze, I quickly said, "Sorry, Miley. I've got it."

Miley dropped her hand and rolled her eyes at me, muttering, "What's with the attitude?"

When she turned to leave without pushing it any further, I let out a quiet sigh of relief.

…

After I finished unpacking in my room, Betty Banks, our maid, came to call me down for dinner.

It was just me and Miley at the table, but there were ten full dishes spread out in front of us. Every single one was a favorite of mine, made just for me, all because Miley had asked for them.

I served myself carefully, taking small bites and chewing slowly.

It had been a year since I'd had a real meal. All they gave us at the residential treatment center was white bread and baked beans. Sometimes, I'd go an entire month without so much as a bite of meat.

Thinking back to those days, the tears came before I could stop them.

Miley reached for a tissue to wipe my face, but I stopped her without thinking, lifting my arm just enough to reveal the scars.

"What happened to your arm, Delia?"

I quickly hid it behind my back, panic flickering across my face. "I-I fell. That's all."

Her eyes searched mine, and I felt a wave of unease rise inside me. I kept my head down, unable to meet her eyes.

I did lie. Those scars came from the beatings at the residential treatment center. But the counselors warned us that if we ever told our families, they'd find a way to drag us right back.

I couldn't handle the torture when I first got sent to the center. I called Miley in secret, begging her to take me home.

However, she never showed up the next day. Instead, I got a nightmare I'd never forget for as long as I live.

That day, they strapped me to the torture device and sent waves after waves of electricity through my body.

I screamed and begged, but they didn't stop, not until I blacked out.

Just before I slipped into unconsciousness, a voice like a demon's hissed in my ear. "Delia, do you think your sister would believe you, or trust our center more?"

Of course, Miley would believe the center. To her, I was just a problem. That was why I could never tell her the truth.

"You still haven't kicked that lying habit, Delia. I can't believe even sending you to that residential treatment center didn't stop you from picking fights."

Miley slammed her fork down with a sharp clatter, her eyes burning with a mix of fury and disappointment as she glared at me.

"I really thought you'd changed. But deep down? You're still the same rotten person you've always been!"

With that, dinner ended on a sour note.