Free Under My Skin by Laura Diamond Page B

the window.
    Sleet attacks the glass like an orc army beating the walls of Helm’s Deep. I nestle deeper under the covers. Nothing can touch me here. Not Dad’s denial of my worsening illness or Dr. Shaw’s challenges or Mum’s flitting over me every two seconds. Not even Death, even though it resides deep in the chambers of my heart, waiting to draw the scythe across my arteries and veins.
    I don’t expect the Grim Reaper to stalk into my room in the darkness of night to steal my soul. My murderer is within and I can’t run from myself.
    Dad zips his coat. “I’ll call when I get home.”
    Mum smiles. “Thanks, honey. Goodnight.”
    Dad waves at me. “See you tomorrow, son.”
    “Bye, Dad.”
    Mum busies herself with fixing her pillow and straightening her blanket. “What do you want to do tonight? Watch a movie, play a game … ?”
    I click off the bedside lamp and face the window. The blinds are open, letting in light from the street. It’s softened to a rosy glow from the fog and precipitation. The urge to confess what happened with Shaw coats my tongue, but I can’t risk letting it past my lips. Mum would talk to Shaw about it and Shaw would deny it, or twist my words around, or maybe say I’m delusional. Maybe they’ve already talked about it. Shaw probably armed Mum with an argument should I bring up the subject. “I’m tired.”
    There’s a long pause, followed by a soft, “Oh, alright. Guess I’ll read for a bit.”
    Shutting her out makes me an ass, but I have no other option. Like I said to Shaw, she’s infused my every waking moment, drowned any private thoughts, and snuffed out each glimpse of freedom I have left. Yes, it’s better if I don’t say anything.
    Mum’s shoes squeak slightly on the tile floor. Rustling of sheets blossom in the silence, then the soft pops of the cot stretching to bear her weight echo throughout the room. The bluish glow of her Kindle reflects off the ceiling, competing with the orangey blush of the streetlights outside.
    Several agonizing minutes pass where I argue with myself. I should turn around, face her, and talk . About my thoughts, my fears, and what I think about the transplant.
    Mum would proudly declare it a breakthrough to Shaw.
    Shaw. She’s supposed to be helping me through this, but all she does is play with my mind and confuse me. The woman really thinks I want to die.
    Do I?
    Air stagnates in my lungs as I trip on the question. I grab a fistful of blanket. My heart stumbles into a faster beat.
    Enough! I can’t afford to trigger another attack.
    I take a few slow, deep breaths to steady myself.
    Mum clears her throat. A reminder that she’s there. Or an invitation.
    I could roll over and say, “Mum, we need to talk.”
    Five little words. It’d make her so happy. Yet it’s so hard to do.
    I swallow the lump blocking my throat. Sit up. Open your mouth. Come on. Do it .
    I shut my eyes and hold my breath. My heart flutters, anticipating my leap into openness. I clench my jaw. There’s nothing beneath me to catch my fall. No safety net. I can’t do it. I’m too much of a coward.
    “I love you, Adam,” Mum says, tossing me a feeble lifeline. I’m not sure if it’s for her or me.
    The plea in her voice settles over me like a layer of ice. It’s sharp, biting, and suffocating.
    “Adam?”
    “I’m not shutting you out, Mum.” I open my eyes and stare at the blinds slats. They start to ripple, an optical illusion. Acid rolls in my stomach at the lie.
    “Yes, you are. I just don’t understand why. What did I do to push you away?”
    I turn my face into the pillow. “Nothing.”
    “Doctor Shaw says withdrawing is a sign of worsening depression. She’s worried about you and so am I.”
    “I’m not depressed.”
    “You’ve been here two days and you’ve barely said anything. You hardly respond to the surgeon’s questions. Shaw says you’re clamming up in therapy.” She sucks in a shaky breath. “We’re so close to getting