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Mumbling
     
    “I really just don’t want to talk about it. It doesn’t mean anything to talk about it anyways,” Johnny said as he sat in the guidance counselor’s office.
    The walls were exposed brick, and one entire wall was a huge bookshelf that was completely full of books, both large and small. The green floor tile wasn’t attractive, but Johnny liked Mr. Benson’s office. It smelled like oranges. He always felt comfortable there, at least until Mr. Benson started asking questions. Johnny would never tell him anything that happened at his father’s house.
    “It doesn’t mean anything? What do you mean by that, Johnny?” asked Mr. Benson.
    Mr. Benson was a kind man, but Johnny had heard whispers from others that the man had no business counseling anybody. He was thirty years old, tall, slender, often wore suspenders, and was just odd. He had a comb over, and used words that were foreign to Johnny. To top it off, he was constantly pushing his dark-rimmed glasses back up as they slid down his greasy, pointed nose.
    “I don’t know what you want me to say, Mr. Benson. I can’t leave there, and I’m going to be there my whole life. So, that’s just that. There’s no need to talk about it,” Johnny said as he sat in the office chair across from the counselor, looking out the small window on the left side of the office.
    “Your whole life? No, that’s incorrect, Johnny. When you turn eighteen this year you are no longer required to live there if you don’t want to. By law, you are free to leave. There are several available resources and systems in place to assist those that need help getting on their feet. Johnny, your grades are very decent, and—”
    “I can just walk out and leave when I turn eighteen? I don’t have to stay there no more?” Johnny asked, feeling his pulse behind his eyes, searching Mr. Benson’s face for truth.
    “That’s…that’s right, Johnny. Were you told otherwise?” Mr. Benson remained expressionless.
    Johnny felt certain the man knew more than he let on.
    Mr. Benson had filed reports with administration, and had even contacted the local police department. Nothing came from it, as the law enforcement had nothing to go on other than rumors and a shaky counselor’s intuition.
    Johnny couldn’t understand Mr. Benson’s specific interest in his case. He recognized the area was riddled with situations similar to his own. He was only one of many sad stories.
    “Johnny, did someone tell you that you had to stay at your father’s residence your entire life?” the concerned counselor continued.
    Johnny stared at his folded hands in his lap.
    “How…how long after I turn eighteen can I leave?” the boy asked quietly, still staring at his hands.
    “The day, the very second you turn eighteen you are free to leave. Twelve o’clock midnight, on July 18, you are free to leave and there is nothing anyone can say about it.”
     
    Johnny sat up in bed. He was sweating and shaking as he looked about the dark room. He was breathing heavily through both his mouth and nose. The room, the smells, the sounds, everything was foreign as he frantically looked in every direction for familiarity. For a moment, he had forgotten where he was. In that moment, he was back in hell. As he evaluated the room, it began to come back to him.
    The thick, heavy comforter was the most comfortable blanket the boy had ever covered up with, yet Graye had apologized because it had a flower print on it. Johnny often had to wash the mouse urine and droppings from his blankets on his old bed; flower prints were nothing to be apologetic for. The wall next to the door had an oil painting of a woman staring into a mirror. The closet was huge and was full of heartworm medication boxes and other supplies that Jackson needed.
    He couldn’t hear the dull humming of the swamp cooler that was in the living room of his father’s house. He knew he was safe for the night. What was confusing him was his conversation