The Day I Lost
David Boeving
6/30/26
David Boeving (they, them) is a writer, a teacher, and a psychotherapist. David teaches at Eastern Michigan University and the Huron Valley Women’s Correctional Facility, and works with a community team to produce wellness-focused content through YpsiWrites’ Write for Wellness initiative. David’s therapy practice focuses on parenting, relationships, and the LGBTQIA2S+ community. David has published poems, fiction, pedagogy, and photographs, has recent writing in Flash Fiction Magazine and The Literary Hatchet, and their chapbook, Letters to _____; or, Restless Quintet, is available from Bottlecap Press.
We’re told to board what was a school bus, girls on one side, boys the other. I’m told the boy side. I hesitate, then take a front seat. The seats smell faintly of bleach. We depart the government building, and we’re told to stay quiet.
The bus rolls up to a long, one-story house in the woods. We’re told to file off and inside. One of us whispers about how empty the rooms are. Another whispers about feeling hungry. Outside, the unmarked bus departs the manicured property.
We’re all given yellowed white sweatsuits. The clothes stink of bleach. We’re told to change fast in the bathroom, one at a time. I sigh in relief and hope no one hears. Then, we’re told to hand over our possessions.
We’re told to sit on the dull hardwood of what was a living room. We’re told to write thank-you letters to the man who enrolled us. When we slouch, we’re told to sit up. Then, we’re told to read aloud. When a name’s called for me to read, I try not to wince.
We’re told work assignments and to work fast if we want food. Many of us are given bleach. Some are sent outside, supervised. I bleach and dry loads of sweatsuits in the house’s laundry room. Then, we’re given bologna and white bread.
We’re told to use the bathroom again, one at a time. We’re told our room assignments. Boys in one, girls the other. I’m told the boy room. I say nothing.
In the dark, a boy hops out of bed, opens a window rigged to only open inches, and lights a cigarette. Another boy jumps from a top bunk. They whisper about how the first hid the pack and lighter when we turned our possessions in. They whisper invitations to the room, and everyone joins except me and a boy who’s pretending too or really is asleep.
In the morning, we’re told to count off. Then, we’re told one of us ran off and will get six more days’ retribution. We’re told new work assignments.
While cleaning windows, I watch light illuminate purple and yellow flowers previous participants must have planted, and I whisper with a nice girl about something I don’t usually share. She tells me something I don’t usually hear, and I stare into dark rows of pine past the flowers. Then, we’re given bologna and white bread again.
We’re told to write to ourselves on our deathbed. Then, we’re told to read aloud. When one girl reads a letter berating herself for not running off last night too, we’re told we don’t know who’ll see our letters. Everyone straightens up then, and without moving my head, I glance at the girl I whispered with earlier. Her hair hangs over her shoulders in curls. I scribble over what I’d written.
I imagine someone old. I recognize myself despite the person looking unlike me today. They’re happy. We breathe together. I count who’s left to read before my turn.