Free Ultraviolet by R. J. Anderson Page A

missed the scuffle and thump of my younger brother practicing his slap shot in the driveway. I even missed our fat, brainless cat jumping onto my chest in the middle of the night and breathing out amber waves of
fisssssh
.
    Maybe it was irrational, but I truly believed that if I could just go home, everything would be all right. Sure, my relationship with my mother wasn’t the greatest, but my bitterness toward her was an old ache that I’d lived with for years, nothing like the blind rage that had made me lash out at Tori. I couldn’t imagine disintegrating her, any more than I could imagine doing it to my father or Chris.
    Other people might be more of a problem. But even if my neighbors had seen the police taking me away to the hospital, even if my schoolmates knew I’d been the last one to see Tori on the afternoon of June seventh, they had no reason to accuse me of murder—especially since the police weren’t even calling Tori’s disappearance a murder yet. If I just kept quiet and stayed out of sight, they’d probably leave me alone. And maybe once I’d had a few days to rest and get the drugs out of my system, I’d be able to work out exactly what I’d done to Tori, and how to stop it from happening again.
    I just hoped the police wouldn’t arrest me before I had the chance.

    . . .

    My lawyer showed up at two-forty that afternoon, more than half an hour late. He was a stout man with thin hair and a harried expression that reminded me of the White Rabbit, and I got the feeling that I was one client too many for his busy schedule. But he seemed to know the details of my case, and he also had a copy of my patient chart and a few other reports I’d never seen before. I leafed slowly through them, blinking at phrases like
flat affect
and
poverty of speech
, while he explained what would happen at my appeal.
    It sounded similar to a court appearance, with both sides calling witnesses and presenting evidence to support their case. But the board would also consider some kinds of evidence that wouldn’t necessarily be allowed in a formal trial, such as hearsay. The whole process would take about an hour, and once all the witnesses had been cross-examined and final statements made, the board would dismiss us while they made their deliberations.
    “And within twenty-four hours, they’ll notify you of their decision,” he said. “Does all that make sense to you?”
    I nodded distractedly, my eyes still on the file. Until now, I hadn’t realized how many of the things I’d done and said, things that seemed perfectly innocent to me, had been taken down by Dr. Minta and the nurses as proof of my mental illness. My reluctance to interact with the other patients on Red Ward, for instance, was antisocial behavior. When I’d tried to stay calm, that showed a lack of emotional response. My short answers and poor math skills were evidence of disordered thought processes. I often seemed distracted, which suggested that I was experiencing auditory and visual hallucinations. And the one time I’d let my guard down enough to giggle in front of Dr. Minta, he’d marked it down as “inappropriate laughter”.
    There was more, but I’d seen enough. I closed the file.
    “So,” said my lawyer, “do you have any questions?”
    “I do, but . . . not about the appeal.” I took a deep breath, gathering courage. “You’ve read my file, right? So you know I told the police I’d killed Tori Beaugrand, when I . . . when I was crazy?”
    “Yes.” He paused, and I could tell he was trying to decide how fragile my mental state might be, and whether or not it was a good idea to ask if I’d actually killed her. But all he said was, “So what’s your question?”
    “Could they charge me with murder, based on that confession? Even though they haven’t found a body, or a weapon, or any other evidence that Tori’s . . . not alive?”
    “Ah.” He leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands together over his stomach. “Well,