Free Paperweight by Meg Haston

mother never let me have these. I crammed the cakes into my mouth, one after the other after the other, until I was breathing them in, positive that without them I would suffocate. I barely took the time to chew, so deep was the need for this oxygen. Too soon, my hands grasped nothing.
    Next the bag of round chocolate truffles, each encased in their familiar yellow-gold foil. I pressed the soft globes between my tongue and the ridged roof of my mouth. Their surrender was instant.
    Soon fear churned in my gut. It mingled with the processed sugar and booze. I forgot to drink something; this would neverwork unless I drank something. Rookie mistake. There was a gallon of tea somewhere, I know, somewhere.
    Sweet tea. My fingers found the plastic handle. I gulped it down with the kind of urgency only the dying could understand. It spilled down my front, slipped its sticky fingers along my throat and between my breasts. The plastic container buckled, no match for my rabid sucking.
    I kept going that way, stuffing myself with all of it—the cheese puffs like bony electric orange fingers, the packets of powdered hot chocolate I tore open with my fangs. It was not human what I was becoming.
    The end came only when everything was empty and at last— at last —I was full. I turned off the car and stumbled outside. Fell to my knees in the dirt like the feral animal I was.
    It was harder than I thought it would be. My thick tongue kept obstructing my index finger. My body prayed, Please, girl, please. Don’t.
    But it didn’t take long for my body to submit to my will. With deft fingers, I pulled the strings, commanding my body to empty.
    It was almost satisfying, seeing it there on the grassy altar: the swirls of neon orange and frosted bits of cake floating in sugary sweet tea. I crawled a few feet away, twigs and tiny pebbles imprinting my skin with chaotic designs. I flipped onto my back, spent in a moment of peace. It felt almost holy, my body pressed against the earth that way, rising and falling to the irregular chant of my heart. I made an angel in the grass.
    Stars came out. At last, my mind was still. So quiet I could hear the crickets in the grass, proclaiming Georgia summer.
    â€œStevie?” A woman’s voice bubbles to the surface, ripping through me.
    I open my eyes, every fiber of my body aching. I look around and realize that Shrink and I are alone in the villa. The other girls are outside on the lawn.
    â€œStevie.”
    â€œWhat?” My lips and tongue are like rubber.
    â€œI think it’s important that we talk.” Shrink perches on the edge of the sofa. “Do you want to meet in here? In my office?”
    â€œNo session. I don’t feel well.”
    â€œI’m sorry to bother you. Were you sleeping? Dreaming?”
    I shake my head from side to side without opening my eyes. “Remembering.”
    â€œRemembering . . . what, exactly?” I can feel her weight on the couch next to me. I pull my knees to my chest.
    â€œâ€˜Memory believes before knowing remembers,’” I say, because these are the words that come to mind and I’m not about to talk to her about the first time. Not now, not ever.
    â€œSorry?”
    â€œNothing.” Just Faulkner .
    â€œOutside or in?” she asks quietly.
    â€œI told you, I don’t feel well.” My voice is louder than I expected. Sweat collects behind my knees, in the ashy cradle of my elbow. I feel sick, shaky, like it’s early morning and I’m trying to sleep off a night of drinking with Eden.
    â€œYou’re angry.”
    â€œBecause you’re not listening to me.” I sit up, scramble away to the other end of the couch. With my back pressed against the bony sofa arm, I occupy only one cushion, although technically— technically —I occupy only half. Less if I pull my knees tight to my chest and scrunch my toes.
    â€œOkay, so you’re frustrated with me for pushing. And