Paperweight by Meg Haston

go to sleep, like, forever, and not dream.”
    I sit up and face her. “I, uh, have some meds—a pill if you’re upset or—if you can’t . . . if you need something.”
    â€œReally?” She smiles, looking suddenly shy. “Thanks. I mean . . . I’m okay for now. But thanks.”
    â€œIt’s not a big deal.” Nearly all of me has no idea why I offered, especially when she could tell on me and get my stash confiscated. But a minuscule part of me knows what it’s like to be suspended, half-conscious, in a memory you can’t escape. Always remembering. Nobody deserves that. Nobody but me, anyway. “Just don’t say anything.”
    â€œI won’t. Swear.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œSo, um . . .” CB sits up. Her stomach ripples under her dress, making her look like a girl Buddha statue. Curly Blonde Buddha. I almost laugh. “What are yours about?”
    â€œMy what?”
    â€œYour flashba—memories.”
    â€œYou’re not serious.” I would never tell her about the memory of the first time, or about Josh or Eden or seminar or my mother.
    â€œYou don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. It’s just that sometimes it helps me to say things out loud. And you haven’t really said much since you got here.”
    I lie down again and close my eyes against the buzzing fluorescent light and her voice.
    On the other side of the room, the bed creaks. “You’re lucky. It’s like nothing gets to you. I have all this stuff trapped inside, and some days I think if I don’t get it out as fast I can . . .” She heaves a sigh. “It’s like a parasite or something. I don’t know.”
    I do. And I feel the same way. Like my own memories could devour me.
    â€œAnd the thing is, since my family looks so perfect from the outside, people just assume . . .” Her voice wavers.
    I yawn and crack my neck. I need to focus on a new plan, a way to lose weight without alarming Shrink or the rest of my team. No distractions.
    â€œSorry. Never mind. You’re trying to get to sleep.” The bed creaks again, and I hear her pad across the carpet. With the click of the light switch, the room plunges into twilight. I keep on the small clip lamp attached to the built-in shelves. Here the dark is too dark. I flip onto my side and face the painted cinder block wall.
    â€œOh,” she whispers. “Before you go to sleep, do you think you could get my zipper? This one always gets stuck.”
    I roll my eyes at the ceiling. “Fine.”
    She perches on the edge of my bed, back to me. I cringe at the fleshy curves beneath the thin cotton.
    â€œHere.” She scoops the mass of thick blond curls off her back and whips them into a twist so I can reach the zipper. I pinch the cold metal between my fingers and drag it down. The gasp escapes my throat before I can stop it.
    Trailing from her hairline to the space between her shoulder blades is a shower of small, perfectly circular scars. Some are purple, some red, and some raised, thick, and white. It looks like someone has taken a hole punch to her, like she’s nothing more than a cheap paper doll. Horrified, I reach out to touch one. It’s callous beneath my finger.
    â€œOh. God.” She jerks away, reaching for the zipper as she escapes to her side of the room. “Sorry. I didn’t think—”
    â€œNo! It’s okay! I . . . what happened to you?” I dig my nails into the mattress, suddenly feeling like I might puke. What am I supposed to do? Go over there? Leave her alone? Call somebody? Shrink, maybe. There’s a phone in the hall, I remember.
    â€œNothing,” she says quickly. Her eyes are wide with concern, like she’s more worried about me than the meteor shower of scar tissue tumbling down her spine. “Nothing new, anyway. I’ve had these.” And then, as if she’s read my mind,