I stayed with her day and night. She’d wake
up screaming from nightmares, only to see
my face in the moonlight, like a vengeful
ghost. She couldn’t even scream for help, just
make choked, gurgling sounds. She couldn’t
eat or sleep, and her recovery was slow. Poor
thing.
Meanwhile, I contacted a popular blogger with
millions of followers. I showed her my scars
the whip marks, cigarette burns, countless
cuts and bruises. Her expression was a mix of
shock, pity, and rage. She agreed to help me
expose the school.
At the school, I’d met a boy whose parents
sent him there for his “internet addiction.” They shaved his head, eyebrows, even his eyelashes
obedience training. When he tried to go online, they broke his fingers, one
by one. They strapped him to a chair, playing
<
video games on a screen while they
electrocuted him, over and over. I watched
that proud boy break, begging on his knees. “I won’t play anymore, please, just let me go.” He never touched a game again. His relieved
parents bought him new clothes, planned a
vacation. They came home from the store to
find an empty apartment, a window wide
open. The boy had jumped.
I told the blogger everything. She posted it online, and it went viral. By the time the school tried to suppress it, it was too late.
The top trending topic was: He Quietly Ended
His Life. The boy’s story was everywhere,
shared and reshared, bringing tears to
countless eyes. People were heartbroken for
1
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him, furious at the school. Others came
forward with their own stories, their evidence.
The wall came crashing down. There are
parents who actually send their kids to these
places? Shut it down! This kind of darkness
shouldn’t exist! I spent two weeks there. It
took me five years to recover from the
depression.
The truth was out. Everyone was talking. Soon, my parents would know. Know what
their daughter had endured. Know why I was “traumatized.” Know the monstrous mistake they’d made.
I waited. I heard them at the door, their
breathing ragged. I was changing, my scars
exposed. Mom screamed and crouched down, covering her head. Then, trembling, she approached me, tears streaming down her face. “Ashley…how…? Does it hurt?” Dad,
usually so volatile, was silent, his eyes red-
rimmed, his body rigid, his fists clenched so
tight his nails were digging into his palms.
Mom reached out to hug me, but I flinched
away, looking at them with empty eyes. They
recoiled, wounded, whimpering like caged
animals.
