Paperweight by Meg Haston Page A

“Staff knows already. Don’t worry about it.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it?” I rub my face with my hands. My entire body is tensed. “But—”
    â€œSeriously, Stevie.” She lets out a hard-edged laugh. “Would you just lie down? You’re freaking me out.”
    I force a laugh, too, but it feels wrong, like I’m the one who put those scars there. Even though I didn’t. And she didn’t, either. There’s no way she could have reached those places on her body.
    â€œTurn the light out? I can’t sleep with that thing on.” She climbs into bed, still clothed, and buries herself beneath the covers.
    I have the sudden urge to climb in with her, to stroke her hair the way Josh used to do for me when I had a nightmare. But that would be weird. So I reach up and turn off the lamp, even though my mind is reeling with questions, and there’s this scream churning inside of me like wind, gathering speed.
    â€œIt’s not, you know,” I say into the dark, “normal.” I don’t say it to make her feel bad. I just say it so she knows it’s not okay.
    â€œYeah.” Her voice is a whimper, but she seems to understand. “I know.”
    â€œYou can tell me if you want,” I say to the ceiling, after severalminutes have passed. My own marred flesh is aching, and I knead the scar with my fingertips. It does nothing to ease the throbbing.
    Across the room, she says nothing. There is only the easy, rhythmic breathing of her sleep. In and out, in and out, like cool water lapping against a rocky shore.

day seven
    Thursday, July 10, 4:45 A.M.
    I lie motionless on top of the covers for hours, my mind filled up to the very edges, spilling over with the knowing of something I’m desperate to unknow. I sync my breathing with Ashley’s. In, out. In, out. In, out. A small and pointless act of solidarity. Every hour, a faceless nurse dips into the room for bed checks. She reduces us to numbers. One, two.
    My eyes are tethered to the ceiling, wide and unblinking. I wonder what kind of animal could be capable of that kind of hurt. Her father, maybe. A stock image of a well-dressed asshole flashes through my mind. He sits in a mahogany-paneled office, sipping antique scotch meant for a special occasion that he knows will never come. At the end of his cigarette, a burning pinpoint of fire.
    In, out.
    Or maybe it was the mother. A woman who looks like Ashley but older, with slightly crepe skin and a thickness around her middle, where she has harbored years of resentment. She stands in the doorway while Ashley sleeps, stalking her prey, exhaling silvery breaths. Waiting for the right time.
    In, out.
    After the sixth bed check, I can’t stand it anymore. I jump out of bed and stretch out on the floor. The cement is cold beneath a paper-thin layer of dusty carpet. I take a measured breath and press my hips into the floor. Lift my right leg slowly, then lower it to the ground. The tightness in my chest dissolves like foam. Next, the left leg. With each exhale, my nearly empty stomach collapses against my backbone. Nearly empty . There was the half carton of yogurt this morning and the Gatorade water. Tomorrow will be better.
    My thighs are starting to burn, the beginning sparks of an absolving fire. Forgive me, brother, for I have sinned. But the exercises don’t work the way they should. Soon, the thoughts start to creep in again. Tomorrow can’t be better. They’ll tube feed you before they let you get any closer to Josh. I pick up speed, doubling the reps on each side. If they skewer you with a tube, pump calories into your gut, you’ll lose everything. And if you start to gain on your own, it’s over. There is no way out. You are trapped. A caged animal.
    A soft knock brushes against the door, and I jerk upright.
    â€œWho’s there?” I gasp into the dark. My skin is clammy. I think I might puke. The thought