Free Drowning Instinct by Ilsa J. Bick Page B

follow-up if ever there was one. Because the truth, Bob, is that I‘d kind of forgotten how to talk to normal people. You know: the give and take, the little lies you let stand, the black holes you avoid because all friends know what shouldn‘t be said? The sucky thing about a psych ward is that you have to watch what you say. Therapists love hidden meanings, especially when their patients morph into these mini-me‘s. It‘s like the more people who agree with you, the truer whatever you think becomes. Complete psychopaths really get into it because they‘re total suck-ups, the best liars around, and when the therapist‘s watching, they‘ll hammer until you either get angry or break down and agree that, yes, yes, what you said isn‘t what you meant. Silence is not an option, either. Silence is resistance and, as we all know, resistance is futile.

    David wanted to talk. That was clear. Why else would he bother with someone like me? So the normal response would be: like what kind of stuff?

    Instead, I pointed. ―What‘s that from?‖

    An arrow of surprise shot across his face. ―Where? Oh.‖ He pulled up his shirt even further, and now I could see how the cut had unzipped his skin all the way to his armpit.
    ―It‘s from last year. The other guy‘s blade broke in the middle of a bout and got in under my jacket. It happens way more than you think.‖

    ―Really? Why?‖

    ―Because a saber blade is really whippy and light, so you can go fast. Blades break all the time. The doctors said I was lucky this one went up instead of in, though. There was blood everywhere. Totally freaked out the coaches and the ref. Me, too.‖

    ―Wow,‖ I said, and then my hand was floating into the space between us before I could call it back. Or, maybe, I really didn‘t want to, Bob. I don‘t know. But it was like watching myself in a dream, the way my fingers homed in.

    His skin jumped at the contact. No way to hide that flinch. I heard the tiniest suck of air as he pulled in a gasp, but he didn‘t say anything. Didn‘t tell me to stop. Looking back on it, Bob, I don‘t think he wanted me to. Or maybe he was just too stunned.

    The scar was very smooth. Warm. The feel changed, too, as my hand followed the trail of tissue over the hard shelves of his ribs. David still didn‘t move or speak; I think he was as astonished—as hypnotized—as I. The scar finally petered off over his left pec. His heart was knocking so hard I felt the flutter against my fingertips.

    My head went a little airy. I could see the sudden throb of his pulse in his neck. His lips parted, and something spirited over his face, very fast. He blinked and said, roughly, ―It doesn‘t hurt anymore.‖

    That broke the spell. ―Oh,‖ I said, and exhaled a shaky little laugh. I took my hand back. ―Sorry.‖

    ―That‘s okay,‖ he said, tugging his shirt back down around his waist. Scarlet dashed over his cheeks. ―I . . . uh . . . I still carry that broken saber around. Want to see it?‖

    ―Sure,‖ I said, but he was already turning away and reaching down to unzip the large blue gym bag. I heard that metallic chatter again as he rummaged. I spotted at least five different swords. ―How come you have so many?‖

    ―Because some weapons are for bouts and others for practice,‖ he said and then tugged out the broken saber. ―Here.‖

    The bell guard was broad and bright silver and curved, like you see in a movie, but the blade itself was a little disappointing: just under a foot long and dull gray. No real heft, either, or weight. Maybe he read my disappointment because he said, ―It‘s really light, but the tip, where it‘s broken? Here.‖ He proffered the ruined weapon. ―You don‘t want to be on the business end of that .‖

    He was right. The saber‘s jagged metal was very sharp. I thought about how easy it would be to draw blood. Mind you, I wasn‘t tempted. Just . . . interested. Handing it back was easier than I thought it