Free Soul Fire by Nancy Allan Page A

bad.
    “Thought you were going to avoid school for a few days.” His tone was almost reprimanding.
    “I should have listened.”
    “Let things cool off,” he warned me again.
    “Don’t worry, this morning did it for me.” I took another bite of the cheese sandwich.
    “You tell your parents what’s been going on?”
    “No way.” I took a few sips of hot chocolate. “How do I get out of this mess?”
    “Change schools.” He reached into his jeans pocket. There it was, the bag with little pink pills. He shook a couple onto the coffee table and then put the open bag down next to them.
    “Your mom home?” I asked, my eyes glued to the pills he called X.
    “She’s always home. Remember to be quiet.”
    I nodded and reached for one, popping it into my mouth. I wanted to obliterate any memory of this morning. Even to feel nothing at all would be an improvement, so I scooped up a couple more pills and downed them. “Hey, stop!” He grabbed my wrist, but it was too late.
    Like last time, I started to feel better . . . good actually. I drifted for a while, savoring my reprieve. The room grew hot and then stifling. Whew. Had to get rid of my clothes. But not in front of… what’s his name…Dave? I weaved my way into the bathroom and threw cold water on my face. Even the water felt hot. Weird. I stuck my head out the door and yelled, “It’s frying in here. Turn off the heat." I staggered down the stairs, seeking the cold outdoors when I realized I was going to barf. It splattered across the clean kitchen floor as I raced for the back door. Bolting through it, I was barely able to catch my breath, my heart racing, my thoughts fixed on reaching the cold air outside. I made it out and then collapsed, my heart galloping like a crazy horse in my chest, my skin on fire, and a single terrifying thought zapping through my brain:
God help me!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    I awoke in a private room adjacent to the hospital’s emergency ward. Tubes and wires were everywhere. A nurse was on one side of me and my parents were on the other. Everyone looked grim. Mom had aged. Her youthful face was haggard. Her sunken, red-rimmed eyes met mine.
    “Mom?” Who’s squeaky voice was that? Mine?
    “Oh, Ashla, what were you thinking? You almost died, do you know that?” she blew her nose and gripped my hand. Her fingers were icicles. “It was touch and go for hours while they pumped you out, put you on a ventilator, gave you injections, and the whole time…” a sob racked her body and Dad put his arm around her, “we waited to hear if you were going to make it,” she wiped tears away, “or not.”
    Dad wiped his eyes and reached for my other hand. I could feel the tension in his fingers.
    “Sorry.” It came out a whisper.
    “Ashla,” he said quietly. “Why?”
    Why? Nothing intelligent came to mind, so I remained silent as I searched my malfunctioning brain for a decent excuse. Nothing popped up. How do you tell your parents that you, their pride and joy, the product of their lifetime of labor, had blown it and just couldn’t live with that simple fact? How do you tell them that you couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror and see anyone worth looking at? That instead, you saw a stranger who could no longer hold her head up. How do you tell them that you’ve lost your way? That you’re adrift like a ship in a malicious sea—with no one at the helm?
    How do you tell them that you don’t know how to go on with your life?
    “Ashla, can you hear me?”
    I nodded despondently.
    Dad wiggled my limp hand in his. “Ashla?”
    “Sorry . . . ” I whispered again and closed my eyes. Looking at the love in their faces, and seeing their worry and confusion, made me feel like such an ungrateful, undeserving creature. I had the best parents in the world. Too bad they no longer had a daughter to be proud of. If only I could turn back the clock to the day of the accident. If only I’d turned around that fateful day and gone down the