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November 18, 2008 Tuesday
Day 60. Subject still alive. Talks to spiders.
That’s what they would jot down in my record, if I had a record. I leaned over the sink towards the mirror, trying to pinch out the tinted contact lens without maiming my eye. Moments like this made me thankful I had a private sink in my room separate from the shared bathroom. Zhi Shu was my only roommate. He was a spider named after a Chinese drama character I’d been watching when he first climbed up my pant leg. Normally I’d cup and release any arachnid that made its way into my bedroom, but Zhi Shu had a way of vanishing from sight or else nesting out of reach on the ceiling. Since I couldn’t get rid of him, I let him earn his place as the dorm mascot.
“I’ve always thought that I totally look just like Cleopatra!” my suitemate Rachel’s voice carried through the bathroom door into my room.
“Hey yeah! I’m so jealous,” answered Chel. “I’m more of a Jennifer Lopez, Jordin Sparks hybrid. Shame I don’t have the vocals to match my glam.”
“What about Erin?” Rachel asked. I unwillingly eavesdropped to hear which unfortunate character they’d pair with my name.
“A six-foot-plus Italian Asian American woman? I think she’s humanity’s only one,” Chel laughed lightheartedly. A blow-dryer snapped on and roared an end to their voices. Alone on the other side of the door, I sighed and stayed focused on my delicate procedure. Maybe I should tell them they’d gotten my heritage wrong. Or maybe I wouldn’t bother. Explaining the genetic errors that made me different from both my parents just made people look at me like more of a freak.
The art of girl gossip and being social was something I’d always had a dismal grade in, and university was no different. College felt like an intricate social experiment. Living with strangers in limbo between childhood and adulthood was a chaotic plot device. Especially for an awkward eighteen-year-old with limited social skills, thanks to being in and out of school on sick-leave all the time. I supposed I could do with some chaos after years of daily life written by a smothering mother.
My cellphone vibrated. Mom again. After putting the last brown contact in its liquid solution I lifted the phone to be sure, holding it between two damp fingers. Expect package, she wrote. More vitamin supplements? Did she expect me to open a pharmacy? At this rate I’ll have enough to spell the alphabet, and that’s not a reputation point I want on my social resume. It’s bad enough that I smell like minty fresh hand sanitizer. I glared at the ghostly face in the mirror. White-blue irises shone back under the harsh fluorescents. You’re my winter fairy. Perfect for a December baby. Slamming the drawer with the lenses shut, I returned to my desk.
A psychology textbook lay next to an open box of cereal. After swallowing a handful of sugar-coated squares, I read:
2. If your behavior was explosive, aggressive, and out of control, would you allow Dr. Freeman to perform a prefrontal lobotomy on you? Why or why not?
Psychology professors had odd humor. Whose standards were we going by here? Sociopathic aggressive, or teenage angst aggressive? If the latter, why would I want to take the fun out of life by curing it? I’d never had the energy for a rebellious stage. I penciled in an answer and plunged my hand back in the cereal bag. Buying from the colorful sugary section of the cereal aisle was as rebellious as I’d managed so far. Even that would be enough to trigger a fight with Mom, if she knew. The miles between us were a welcome break for us both.
My thumb scrolled through her texts left on my phone.
November 18 2008 6:52am
Subj: sleep
Getting enough sleep?
November 18 2008 7:10am
Subj: meds
Found app to track daily meds.
November 18 2008 4:05pm
Subj: no insurance
Don’t use the health clinic for ANYTHING, I waived the insurance.
November 18 2008 4:07pm
Subj: maniac
Don’t even think about copying Terra’s eating habits, the girl’s a maniac.
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At least now I could power Mom down with the push of a button. I’d hoped that in my absence she would find a healthier hobby than trying to fix me. I was sick of being micromanaged, sick of daily vitamin counts and being treated like I were half my years. Mom’s best efforts couldn’t keep me from catching every cold and flu that went around. My immune system was broken. Germs flocked to me as though I could cleanse them of their sins. Mom was always in some kind of frenzy, pushing diets and exercise regimes and folklore cures she’d read about online. I’d made peace with spending life anemic and illness-prone. Physical therapy and determination helped me gain enough strength not to have to walk with a cane anymore, but sometimes my muscles still gave up without warning. The one friend who’d stuck with me despite everything, Terra Kelmar, had inspired me to leave home for college. That likely earned her a black mark in Mom’s list of grudges.
Off-key Sparks song lyrics had replaced the drone of the hair dryer in the bathroom. My hand groped toward the wall where my mp3 player was recharging. As I stretched, an elbow knocked the psychology textbook to the floor.
“Why does love always feel like a battlefieeeld!” sang Rachel. Headphones on, power on. I stuffed my mouth with cereal and chewed furiously to garble my suitemate’s voice. At last, electronic beats sanitized my ears. I grabbed the psychology textbook off the floor and rubbed out the crinkled pages. I wasn’t sorry. For ninety bucks and no resale value, I better be allowed to abuse the thing. A door slammed past the sound of my music. Thank goodness, Cleopatra and Hybrid Girl were gone. Flipping the volume down, I settled back in my chair and prepared myself for the next psychology question. Junk food, independence, and a hairy eight-legged roommate. This year was going to be special. Zhi Shu waved a leg at me from the ceiling. I flashed him a peace sign and got to work.
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Six-thirty A.M. Thunder rumbled outside my Christmas lights framed window, the sound of rain drowned by the hiss of my suitemate’s extra-long shower. I made a pillow of my dry bath towel under the desk lamp’s pool of light. It was dark, it was cold, and there was a test on the psychoactive properties of mushrooms at eight that I didn’t have the patience to study for. The peer counselor had advised me to take the class “Mushrooms, Mold, and Society” because he’d heard it was easy. But I was an English major. An hour-long lecture on poison molds that grow in people’s floorboards wasn’t an encouraging way to start off the morning. Thanks to Professor Ridman, every time I walked across the bathroom my feet got phantom itches, no matter how many times I’d scrubbed that place with cleanser.
At long last, the shower squeakedoff. The door scraped back, feet hit the mat, and goddammit, she turned on her blow dryer. It’d be another ten minutes before her hair was dried, combed, and oiled to perfection. My knuckles dragged through my own brown tangles. Would she notice if I tried her expensive hair lotions? I shook aside the thought.
Mom smiled down from my high school grad photo pinned to a corkboard. She looked cordial and full of humor, like a first-grade teacher should look. With my sharper face structure I looked only vaguely like her even with my colored eye-lenses in. People often assumed I was adopted.
“See this nose? This lip shape? Just like mine. That’s Mancini blood,” Mom had said. As if I needed convincing. The height difference set us off the most. With Mom at a petite five feet and me at six-foot four, people often did double takes upon seeing us together. Mom’s friendly plumpness also contrasted drastically to my gaunt figure. When well-meaning strangers told me they were jealous of my ability to be thin, it was all I could do to bite my lip against telling them the truth; I was thin because I was sick, and losing any more weight could kill me.
Dismissing the prospect of a morning shower, I flopped down on the couch to wait for seven o’clock. A handful of Chel’s candy corn added flair to my breakfast. The container was as big as a cookie jar, and made of glass for maximum temptation. Halloween happened weeks ago, but we’d hardly made a dent in the leftovers.
Fifteen minutes and twenty candy corns later I was standing in the rain, next to the guy who always jabbered on a cell phone. Waiting for the bus gave my mind time to wander. By the time the red double-decker barreled around the corner I’d thought of four conjectures for why the guy only wore shorts. One: he was from out-of-state and believed that California was all palm trees and sun 365 days a year. The summer orientation would have encouraged that misconception; Central Valley had been a cozy ninety-nine degrees. Two: his mother usually did everything for him, and in the spirit of manhood he packed for college and forgot his pants. Three: a fashion statement, which never made sense. Four: he thought girls would be attracted to bare legs, or the tough guy look of trying not to shiver when he’s freezing his toes off. I’d seen girls just as determined to wear skirts in high school, and that never made sense to me either.
We flashed our student IDs for the free ride and squeezed in next to the poor shivering souls who lived at the dorm even farther from campus than ours. Half of them stared fixedly at the floor. The rest either fiddled with notes on their laps (if I were a goodstudent, and cared about the psychoactive properties of mushrooms, I’d study too), read and re-read the ads on the ceiling to look occupied, or eavesdropped on shorts-wearing guy. I scratched at my neck and listened while my MP3 player booted and then promptly froze. By the time I pushed the end of a paper clip into its reset button, rebooted, and put on my headphones, we were a minute from reaching campus.
We filed out at the station, a line of plastic umbrellas sprouting from the bus door. I trod over to the student union building in search of my bike, listening to my breath against a woolen scarf. The campus was entirely level ground, which made cycling less strenuous than walking. Time for the thrilling daily event of discovering whether the bike thief crew had struck again. Bikes seemed to get stolen almost nightly. Terra was left with a memento of a snapped lock when hers was pinched during the second month of term. I wasn’t too worried; mybike was a work of art. The gear shifter was dead, the paint was a gross red and purple, and duct tape was stuck on in random places for extra ugly anti-thief protection.
Finally I spotted my contraption knocked on its side where some jerk had squeezed in his black Trek. No matter. Justice would be dealt soon enough. If the thieves decided to get a little more artsy, they could leave a calling card. Bike Thieves, Inc.: If you have a complaint, next time don’t leave a thousand dollar mountain bike where we can find it, moron.
The world was a blur of rain as I wheeled onto the road. I was in a downpour, riding a contraption whose brakes were as effective as skidding on my heels. Mom would have a tantrum if she could see me now.
“I’m so special!”I sang into the scarf. A cute Asian kid turned his head before pedaling fiercely away from me. Ah well.
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English Literature class was half over when the headache started. At first I brushed it off as a consequence of my poor breakfast, in which case I deserved a migraine. Dinner was the only meal I ate real food at the dining hall. The first month of college I’d dutifully eaten balanced meals, but then decided that it was time to be an adult. It was my right to make bad decisions. The addition of junk food into my diet made it easier to keep my weight up even if it did nothing good for my nutrition.
Terra’s food habits were contagious. She crunched instant ramen noodles like crackers, then licked out their packet of flavoring. This was the same girl who scraped out the frosting from Oreos with a knife, ate the cookie, and then savored the frosting by itself. The one time we’d gone out for pizza I’d watched in fascination as she delicately pried the breading off the bottom of her slice, ate it, and then picked apart the gooey stuff that was left. I tried it too. It was a messy process, but fun. If Mom disapproved of my choice in friends, she kept her mouth mostly shut. Being often absent meant I was lucky to have a friend at all.
Terra sprawled on the bench next to me, her chin making a pillow of her arm. Water dripped from her brown hair onto the floor, and every so often she shot me a pitiful look to make sure I noticed how much she was suffering. Up front, Professor Smith bounced up and down on her heels, bursting with excitement over the symbolism in one of Raymond Carver’s short stories. They never failed to leave a sour taste in my mouth. In this particular one, “Popular Mechanics,” fighting spouses played tug of war with a baby. Professor Smith thought the way Carver left the baby’s fate open ended was clever. One of the previous stories had been about two guys leaving their wives at home and killing teenage girls with a stone. Needless to say, watching a short curly haired woman bubble over one hopeless tale after another wasn’t why I was an English major. I flipped to the next chapter to see what horrors lay ahead. “Everything Stuck to Him” didn’t tell me much, but somehow it gave me a queasy feeling.
“Notice how the last line parallels the work to the Bible tale The Wisdom of Solomon,” Professor Smith exclaimed. Her smile revolved up and down the assembled students in search of a reaction. All of us except for the one red-haired girl up front stared back at her dumbly, waiting for her to go on. Red Haired Girl smiled back and adjusted her glasses. Professor Smith adjusted her own glasses in reply. “He leaves us at, ‘In this manner, the issue was decided.’ This lets us assume that whereas in the Bible tale the true mother of the baby loved her child enough to surrender it rather than have it cut in half, neither of these particular parents are in that sense true parents.”
Terra closed her eyes and moved a finger up to her ear. I busied myself copying the Chinese character for “peace” in the margins of my notebook, trying to ignore the way my head was throbbing. My nape throbbed too. When I was sick or just particularly weak, what felt like an invisible rash would appear down my back. It seemed to be happening more and more often. Maybe the stress of living on my own for the first time was getting to me. Hot showers and ice packs alleviated some of the symptom, but it always returned. Every time I checked a mirror, there was no bug bite or visible redness. Just a constant, invisible itch crawling down my spine.
By the time class ended, the throb had turned to a pound in my forehead. People’s voices echoed in the dingy hallway. I kept shuffling along the dirty white tiles, following Terra’s bag like a beacon guiding me from a tunnel. Noises were painful against my eardrums. I grabbed Terra’s shoulders and rested my head on her backpack. Despite being three years older, she felt childlike under my tall frame. Her earrings jingled as she looked over her shoulder.
“Uh, this is kinda sudden. And right in public too…”
“I’m not confessing my love, you idiot,” I moaned, and lurched upright with my hand covering my eyes. Footsteps pattered away as our classmates left us alone. Once my arm dropped, things came back into focus. Terra stood a pace away. We’d known each other since ninth grade, so she was used to my fainting spells. She’d been the only high-schooler open-minded enough—or lonely enough—to hang with the outcast kid. “I think my brain has finally had enough sugar mixed with thoughts of drawn babies and is trying to implode,” I muttered. Her eyes flicked upward.
“Mine hurts too. Want to share some aspirin? I think there’s some in my bag. Mixed in with Tums and that cold medicine that makes you sleepy, so eat at your own risk.” My head shook.
“I’ll wait it out. Let’s just grab some healthy green stuff at the dining hall to balance the other half of my lifestyle.” I wrapped my hand in my sleeve to open the building’s door handle. This time the blast of cold air was a relief; there was nothing like sitting thigh-to-thigh in a classroom for two hours to make a person appreciate fresh air.
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Pulling a bicycle through a thunderstorm while my brain had a siege against my skull wasn’t something I’d jot down in my college memory book. Because I had to follow Terra’s walking pace, it took fifteen minutes to reach the cafeteria. We were lucky to get a table during dinner rush hour. Thunder punctuated the crowd’s babble every few minutes, making lights flicker. The large windows looking out to the courtyard flashed white. Conversations halted for a full second before nervous laughter broke out. An epic storm like this would be exciting if I weren’t occupied trying to hold my head together.
“When you said healthy green stuff, you meant healthy green stuff,” Terra remarked upon eyeing my plate.
“You got a problem with my supper?” I asked, glancing down at my cucumber salad.
“That’s too much green. You’re putting me off my burrito.”
“Don’t worry, we both saw the banana cream pie they’re dishing up for dessert.” My fingernails massaged the back of my neck as I spoke, but that only aggravated the tingling. Trying to take my mind off the pain, I shoved my mouth full of lettuce.
“Mmm pie…why else are we making our parents pay thirty grand per term?”
“Why else indeed? Hey look–” My hand made a gesture toward the fruit racks where a guy was stuffing two apples into his coat pockets. A colorful sign overhead read: “University students may each take one piece of fruit or ice cream cone from the dining commons.” The boy didn’t notice the flinty stare of the check-in lady until he was almost past her. She descended on him, bun bobbing as she pulled on a cop face.
“Thirty grand per student and yet they’re so stingy with their fruit,” mused Terra as we watched. The guy was gesturing frantically toward a nearby girl while exclaiming “Hey, hey, this apple’s my girlfriend’s!” The check-in lady crossed her arms, but finally harrumphed off. We watched as the smirking apple thief slunk away, leaving the girl he’d pointed at staring blankly after him.
“We shwould trwy that,” Terra said with a mouth full of burrito. I hadtried to break her of the habit of talking with her mouth full, but the girl was either stubborn or kept at it out of spite.
“You want me to stuff apples down my shirt?” She nodded and swallowed.
“Sure. Better you than me. You’re–” she chomped her burrito,“–so fwat chwested no one’d notwice.” A spiral of carrot hit her in the nose, and she almost choked.
We took our time with the banana cream pie, Terra scraping the crust free of its pudding and setting the dab of whipped cream to the side before starting in. She failed to convince me to do the thing with the apples, so we forced ourselves back out into the storm. Night had fallen already, the street lamps glowing fuzzily behind a sheet of rain. Umbrellas rose over an undergrowth of sweatshirt hoods.
A man stood in the shadow of the building’s overhang, grimacing at the sky. I might not have noticed him if he hadn’t been so remarkably tall and well dressed. I’d guess he was near seven feet, the first person I’d come across to beat me in height. A tie and collar poked over a grey overcoat and boots. All he needed was a hat over his dark hair to complete the film noir outfit. He must be a newly hired professor trying to impress, because the typical dress in this university was slacks and a shirt.
“That peel’s still there. Not even a tempest can wash that thing off the roof,” Terra remarked with an upward glance. My attention turned to a black banana peel flopping sadly over the gutter. For a month it had become our habit to check its progress each time we exited the dining room. My neck tilted to look, but a lightning flash fried my view. Almost the same instant, a battering ram hit the inside of my skull.
“Oh shi–” I gasped and grabbed a pole to stay upright. Pressure rang in my ears, and an afterimage from the flash pulsed across my sight. “Is your offer on the dubious pills in your purse still good?”
Terra looked down from watching the lightning. With a grin, she found the pills and pretended to slip them from her jacket like a drug deal. I hobbled back to the light of the windows to examine them. The tall man was still there, fingering a phone. From this angle I was startled to notice a very long ponytail. That’s…unusual. My back turned so the man wouldn’t question all the pills in my hand. One of the pills had the right shape and engraved “aspirin” label, one was a Tums, and the last two were probably cold medicine. After digging up a water bottle from my bag, I swallowed both the aspirin and the Tums. It was going to be a long, dark, cold, wet way home, and the bus was sure to be packed with sniffling, cold, wet people. Including myself. The Tums would be my good luck charm to keep me calm.
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I was right about the bus. The air was thick with the breath of too many people, their voices full of giddy, giggly energy. High school buses had been like this. Everyone tried to talk themselves into being warm, a kind of oral shiver. I put on headphones to dampen the noise, but the voices cut straight through the bits of plastic. At least no one would try to talk to me.
Tall Man must live close by, because he had followed the line of students into the bus. He had to stoop slightly to fit. The crowd had given him a wide berth, a moat to his formal presence. He had chosen to stand just behind my seat in the aisle rather than share a bench. With a compact mirror I stole a look back. A stern brow frowned into his phone, which he was waving about as if to find signal. Tall Man’s visage made me think of well-groomed murderers in old movies. Or, going by his hair, Hollywood’s fantasy of a ninja assassin. I was sincerely glad he wasn’t in charge of one of my courses. Taking exams while he loomed in the background would drown me in my own sweat.
Quite suddenly his eyes flicked up, catching my own in the mirror. I snapped the compact shut and stuffed it in my purse. I wasn’t staring. I was just checking my makeup, sir. That would be a good excuse if I had bothered to put on makeup this morning. My MP3 player blinked on, miraculously without an error message. For the rest of the bus ride I scrolled through its menus with profound interest.
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You’re just paranoid, I admonished myself. The migraine is making you delusional. Tall Man is not following you. The click of boots on the sidewalk spurred me into a stumbling jog. Twenty paces left to the dorm gate. Rain soaked into my sneakers, giving an offbeat squelch to match every click from behind. Running would be ridiculous. There was no motive for me to gain a stalker, other than being a solitary eighteen-year-old girl. If only I hadn’t conjured that murderer image on the bus, my imagination wouldn’t be so suggestible.
Finally I turned up the walkway and ran my key-card through the scanner. The light turned green. Tall Man’s footsteps slowed, hesitated, but then they continued on down the road. The only building in that direction was a small diner. See? He was just a guy peckish for a cheap meal. My chest jumped in a breathy laugh. Picturing him crunching fries on a stool cracked his dangerous aura. Tension dropped from my shoulders as I ducked out of the rain.
The dorm complex was three stories tall, its buildings arranged in a figure eight with two inner courtyards. Luckily my apartment was on the ground floor near the first entrance. My shoes squelched closer to number 104, noting by the light beneath the curtain that somebody was home. American pop and high-pitched laughter echoed into the night. I double-checked the brass room number in vain, but it still read 104. The paper jungle animals with goggling eyes and the names of 104’s inhabitants were taped below, sheltered by the overhang. Chelsea, Rachel, Erin. The RA—Resident Advisor—had made Chel a jaguar, Rachel a toucan, and me a python. His choice of animals made me wonder if there was some hidden meaning behind them, but since I’d shirked the welcome party there’d never been a chance to ask.
Thanks a lot, Chel. Bring the party home.My forehead pressed on the cold wood, trying to gather patience. Terra’s aspirin hadn’t even begun to work yet. Taking a deep breath, I reached for the door handle.
Thunder ignited a window-shaking boom. Shadows were tossed against the wall as the sky flashed incandescent. My balance pitched forward, slamming the door open. I wasn’t afraid of thunder, but that had been seriously loud. I stood for a moment, getting back my breath. With a hand to my forehead I went inside and shut the door.
Fortunately the horde was in Chel’s and Rachel’s bedroom. A pattering sound behind the wall made me raise my eyebrows. Maybe they were throwing popcorn; it would explain the buttery stench that served as oxygen in here. After a survey of the living room I moved toward the hallway, trying not to slip on takeout containers. Another burst of laughter, and popcorn zinged out an open door. I’d have to slip past to get to my room. Crouching down, I managed to drag off my shoes and sopping socks. Soft steps, back to wall, keep to the shadows… My breath rushed out in the safe zone. I inserted the room key while swallowing buttered air.
The bump of my backpack hitting the floor ruined my silent entrance. Oh well. I crouched down at the foot of the bed, reaching an arm under the mattress to fumble for the Christmas lights’ plug. Kleenex, cleaning supplies, half-empty aspirin bottle, more Kleenex…there it was. A red glow filled the space under the bed to illuminate all the other junk I’d never unpacked, some of it strung together by Zhi Shu’s handiwork.
On all fours I crawled back out. Christmas lights canopied over the bed, their pinpricks of light blurring into red and green smears. Humming Tokio Hotel’s “Rescue Me” under my breath, I collapsed face first onto the bed and hugged the pillow.
“Knock, knock. Hey girl, s’up?” Chel called from the entryway. “Ew, what happened? Didn’t you have an umbrella? Hey, come hang with us if you want. Rachel’s a pro with makeup, she could fix you up. Grab a towel and come have some popcorn.”
“Off the floor?” I mumbled into my pillow.
“What?”
“Thanks, but I’m gonna take a shower. Then I’ve got a therapy appointment with my psychology textbook; we’re supposed to read the chapter on ‘Health and Stress’ by tomorrow.”
My head lifted off the pillow. Chel’s denim-clad hip braced against the doorframe, arms crossed over a tight red shirt. Faintness blurred her figure double. Chel One and Two pulled their hips slowly off the doorframe, smiles breaking into frowns. A flip of a hand brushed back a non-existent strand of hair. I’d seen this mode before. The last time she wore it had been the time she tried to invite me to a dance party at AΦΧ. Chel was a sorority candidate with friends in high places. She couldn’t begin to comprehend why the idea of boys and dancing made me burst out laughing before sobering up to down some aspirin. Our characters were worlds apart.
“Whatever. Suit yourself.” Chel One merged with Chel Two as she stalked out. My head dropped back to the pillow. I wasn’t in the mood to socialize. The headache and itch were making me nauseous, and the thunder booming like a bomb raid over the building wasn’t helping.
There was no time to space out like this. If I didn’t take a shower now, the clan next door would stake out the bathroom for their activities. Imagining the soothing feel of hot water got me up. Hunched against the pain, I dragged myself over to shut the door before leaning against the mini-fridge. This wasn’t my first time getting sick a hundred miles from Mom. Not long ago I’d had a cold that lasted one miserable week. Sniffles, I could handle. Headaches were the worst.
I sidled down the wall to the bathroom door, snatching my shower shoes and towel. The door hinges squealed. Using my towel as a bridge, I stepped across the toxic ground that hadn’t been cleaned since last weekend. Gingerly I lowered to the bathtub edge where I could drag off my clothes and reach the water knob. The popcorn smell hadn’t yet permeated the door. Instead of butter, the bathroom was a gas chamber of lavender fragrance left over from my suitemates’ perfume. I shut myself in the glass box and cranked on hot water. Matted hair fell across my eyes and stuck to my cheeks. It probably made me look like a girl in a horror film, but I made no effort to brush it back or even reach for the shampoo. The back of my neck itched and burned. My hand scratched while my mind drifted.
I stood there for ten minutes. Lavender mist started to make my head woozy, and my arm cramped from leaning against the tile. Sighing, I twisted off the spray and stepped out.
“Shit!” I exhaled. Vision grew splotchy and dark, my hands hitting the toilet seat before I realized I’d fallen. Nausea rose and was swallowed. Once the haze cleared, my knees shifted into a more comfortable position. Then I squinted at my right hand clenched over the seat.
What thehell? My hand trembled over the porcelain. I’m not known for manicured nails, but at least they weren’t usually stained…was that blood?As soon as the thought came to mind, the itch grew again at my nape. I surged upright and hurried to look in the mirror.
Angling a compact mirror to see backwards, I examined the damage. Raised scratches crisscrossed my nape. All that time in the shower I’d been unconsciously digging through layers of skin. Swearing, I traced my fingertips over the lines. The burn intensified until my hand made a fist. Scratching was useless. The itch was deep underneath the skin, where nails couldn’t reach.
Over a year ago I’d had a similar reaction, and I hid the marks with makeup and long hair. Mom had been in one of her depressed moods, so I was afraid to complain. Telling her would be pointless anyhow. She wouldn’t take me to a doctor unless it was an emergency. That was fine by me; doctor visits had been frightening. Mom would glare at doctors and nurses as if my problems were their fault. Not all the symptoms fit, they said. More tests were needed. Even now I had no idea what went through Mom’s mind, but I never went back for more tests. Except for immunizations, I rarely saw doctors.
My body moved automatically, pulling on pajamas and fixing tea while my mind checked out. By the time I sat down with a mug of Earl Grey the itch was driving me crazy. The psychology book fell open to its bookmark, and after taking a gulp of tea, I tried to concentrate. “Stress will always be a part of your daily life,” read the first line. Really? And here I was thinking the smiles and rainbows of adulthood were just around the corner. The fourth line was even more encouraging: “Major causes of death, such as cancer, cardiovascular disease, infection, and stroke, are all closely related with stress.” The tips of my fingers wiped against my jeans, and my shoulders leaned back. Overstressed and alone in a dorm room was a lame way to die. In Korean dramas, people died from knocking someone from an oncoming car or transplanting their own heart to save a dying lover. My body self-destructing like this wasn’t cool.
The textbook blurred out of focus. I shoved back my chair, standing in a rush of dizziness. A scorching glow drained color from the room. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t see a thing. Must’ve stood up too fast. The back of my wrist swiped at my eyes. Had that really been aspirin in Terra’s purse? Was I drugged? But no, I’d checked the label. Besides, she wasn’t the sort of girl who would—
“AHH!”Heat erupted down my back. In a second I hit the floor, limbs convulsing with fire that ran into my fingertips, into my feet. When I screamed again, someone started banging at the door, but I had no breath to answer. Every vein boiled as my nails gouged my nape, digging through skin to reach the source of the pain, throbbing, burning, itching. I don’t want to die. I was going to melt from the heat of my own blood. Don’t want to die. A monstrously tall shadow carved into the fog. I felt more than saw a human shape lean above. My mind was shutting down, lost in the static. I didn’t want to die, but every nerve screamed for escape, and darkness was the only way out.
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