Indifferent Confusion

So lights out at ten kind of sucked, but I had a reading light stashed in my stuff so I took it out and started writing. It was something I had to do before I could get to bed. That was how all of my stories were written; I had three that I was working on and one that was finished. I brought them all with me because I needed my writing to survive. But when the front door opened revealing a pissed off looking Shane, I knew I wasn’t supposed to be writing after ten.

“Outside,” he hissed. I could tell he was trying to keep his voice down so as not to wake up the guys. I rolled my eyes, grateful that he couldn’t see, but crawled out of bed and headed outside without a fight.

“Maybe lights out doesn’t mean anything to you, but it sure as hell will soon,” he assure in an eerily calm voice. “That means you go to sleep at ten and there are to be no lights on. I thought I made that perfectly clear.”

“I can’t sleep unless I write before bed,” I answered not backing down from the passion that kept me alive.

“I don’t care if you think you’re hot stuff. Here, you’re not, got that? There are no special privileges just because you’re a girl.”

“With all due respect, I just need to write. I’m not trying to be defiant, but unless I write, there is no way for me to function. That’s not an exaggeration, even if it does sound pretty melodramatic.”

He stared at me with hard and skeptical eyes, assessing my sincerity. “What are you writing that’s so important?”

“It’s not important, or it wouldn’t be to you anyway. I write stories and it’s my life. I’m sure they really aren’t that good or important, but-”

“Bring me one,” he barked.

“Excuse me?” I couldn’t have heard him right.

“I said, bring me one. If I feel it’s worthwhile, I may allot you an extra bit of time to write after lights out.” I didn’t like the idea of him dictating whether I could write before bed or not.

But I was hesitant; my stories were such personal things. “Shane, I don’t know that you’d want to even waste your time on them.” I knew that he could hear the sadness and uncertainty in my voice.

“Well I guess I’ll be the judge of that, now won’t I? Bring me a story. Are any of them done?”

“There is one that’s done. It’s poorly written though, and I would rather just-”

“Thunder, I want you to bring me a goddamn story. Stop questioning it. I will decide if you deserve the extra time or not. If the story really isn’t good then I will forget about it and you can go on with your life. It will not be that bad.”

So I went to get the story I had finished only a week earlier. It was in a little leather bound journal with random bits of duct tape of all colors on it. The story was one of a girl forced into military school where she fought to be accepted and excel despite what others thought of her. It was mediocre at best and I was sure he would find no value in it.

“I will read it and let you know my decision,” he bit sharply. “In the meantime, you will be getting up at four and training with me before the others join you for your run. Am I making myself clear?”

“Chrystal clear, sir.”

He stared at me with a thoughtful expression. “Do you really think that lowly of what you write?”

“What I write really isn’t for other people to read.” I shrugged, not sure how exactly to explain it. “I write for me, not for other people so I’m sure most people won’t like it or understand it.”

“Well as I said, I will be the judge of that. Be prepared to wake up at four.” Without another word, he walked off.

I took that as my cue to get to sleep. After all, I would be getting up at an ungodly hour of the morning. Fleetingly, I wondered how Holden was doing, but it didn’t last long because I was soon asleep. My dreams were full of possible outcomes of the next few days. I assumed that I would continue to have training early with him until he finished my story because it wasn’t like I could stop writing. There was the option of writing before lights out, but then the guys would question what I was doing. I didn’t need any more people knowing about my writing.

What Shane didn’t understand was that I was by no stretch of the imagination writing to be published. I was writing because that’s what I did and I was addicted to it. Writing was my weakness; the only subject I could never be apathetic about even if I tried. My big bad tough girl barrier came crashing down when it came to writing. I hated having a weakness.

Sure enough, at four o’clock the next morning, I was being shaken fairly roughly by Shane. I didn’t think it was really necessary to shake me that hard, but far be it from me to question him. So I changed into a pair of basketball shorts and a Ramones t-shirt. We walked up to the gym where he took me into this separate workout room that had tons of state-of-the-art shit. Apparently the counselors got better stuff than the delinquents. Gee, what a surprise.

For a while, all I did was spot him as he lifted about a trillion pounds that I wouldn’t have even been able to lift if he needed my help. But then he told me to start lifting, that he would spot me instead. Hesitantly, I took of a whole shitload of weight until there was around 140 pounds still on the bar.

Shane raised an eyebrow at this, a gesture that I found rather insulting. “You sure you can handle all that weight? 140’s a lot for a girl, especially one as small as you are.” Hell no he did not just say that.