Free Thou Shalt Not Road Trip by Antony John

reaches for my hand. Misses. “I’m sorry, Luke.”
    I turn to leave.
    “I said I’m
sorry
.”
    I stop in the doorway, but I don’t turn around. “No, you’re not. Nobody’s making you do this, Fran. Nobody wants to see you mess up your life. Especially not me.”
    Her breath catches. “Why do you hate me?”
    “I don’t hate you. I just don’t know who you are anymore.”
    I glance at the mirror above the sink and see her reflection. She’s on her knees, eyes closed. Tears stream down her cheeks.
    “Do you need anything before I go to bed?” I ask.
    She shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”
    I want to scream at her—
If you’re so sorry, why are you doing this? Why don’t you come to church anymore? Why did you give up debate? Why do you ignore me? What have you done with Fran?
—but instead I take a deep breath and swallow my questions. I mustn’t judge her, no matter who she used to be. No one is perfect, certainly not me. Even though people seem to think I am.
    I climb into bed and pull the covers tight around me. I want to go back to sleep, but I can still hear her—the rush of water and the clatter of objects falling to the floor.
    Then she gasps.
    I jump out of bed and run to the bathroom. Fran is leaning over a sink full of water, staring at her reflection in the mirror as she drives a needle through her left earlobe. Dripping blood forms pink clouds in the water. She’s choking on her tears.
    “Oh, my—” I struggle to catch my breath. “What have you done?”
    “Go away.”
    “I’ll get help.”
    I turn to leave, but she grabs my sleeve. There’s blood on her fingers.
    “This isn’t happening,” I say.
    She releases my arm and extracts the needle fromher ear, wincing in pain. Blood falls freely, and she’s having trouble staunching the flow with the cloth. The water in the sink is uniformly pink. Eventually she gives up on the washcloth and reaches for a hoop she has placed beside her. She lifts it to her ear, but she’s nowhere near sober enough to find the hole.
    She’s not the only one crying now. “Why are you doing this?” I ask.
    She prods around her ear, but she can’t find the hole because of all the earrings around it. It’s brutal, sickening. “Because I can. Because it’s
my
body, and I can do whatever the hell I like with it.”
    “You need help.”
    “Then help me.”
    “Not my help. Professional help. A doctor or something.”
    She almost smiles at that, but the pain is too much. “Go away, Luke.”
    She tries to find the hole again, and the blood keeps flowing. The water has shifted from pink to red. I don’t know how much blood it’s safe to lose; I’m afraid we’re going to find out.
    I pick up her toiletries bag and rummage around. There’s a tube of antiseptic ointment in there, a pack of Q-tips, even a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I unscrew the lid and pour some over a Q-tip. My hands areshaking so hard that most of the liquid ends up in the sink.
    “You need this.” I hold out the Q-tip, but Fran shakes her head. “It’ll get infected,” I say.
    “So?”
    “Don’t you want it to heal?”
    “No, I don’t!”
    She grits her teeth and this time she finds the hole. She drives in the hoop and screws it in place with a tiny metal ball. Her ear looks mangled.
    I’m still holding the Q-tip. “Please, Fran. Please use this.”
    “Stop pretending you care.”
    “I do care.”
    She stares at my reflection in the mirror. “No, you don’t,” she says, but softly. Maybe seeing me cry is making her unsure. Finally she takes the Q-tip and attempts to clean her ear with it. Then she takes a cotton ball from her bag and douses that in rubbing alcohol. Repeats the process with shaking hands. Finally she looks at what she has done, and bursts into sobs that rack every part of her body.
    I reach out, but I can’t touch her. “You need help,” I whisper.
    “Screw you, Luke Dorsey! Screw you and screw your moralizing and screw you for pretending to