Free Ether by Dana Michelle Belle Page A

glare at
him, reminding myself that I appreciate his concern, even if it is a huge
invasion of my privacy, not that I have any of that left. I snatch a fresh
shirt and the jeans out of his hands and go to dress in the bathroom.

 
     
    Chapter 5: Psychosis
    It’s only as Matt’s car
roars down the street that I realize why Justin came over this morning. He’s
looking out for me, again; making sure Matt doesn’t abandon me. But he probably
doesn't need to worry because Matt seems like himself again. He grins when I climb
into the car and holds out a steaming coffee cup, as usual. He doesn’t even
complain about me making them both late, he just ruffles my hair, calls me a
sleepy head and cranks the volume up on the radio. It’s so loud today that any
other thoughts I have are shaken loose.
                Whatever
weirdness was in the air yesterday, it seems to have passed today. A pop quiz
lays waiting on my desk in English class, and math class, and history. It’s
like all the teachers have gotten together and agreed on the right day to
torture us. Friday morning, three classes and three pop quizzes. I think I
might have preferred yesterday. At least I know I can’t have a quiz in fourth
period; study hall.
                I linger in
class, dawdling until the room is almost empty. I haven’t been alone all morning
and the one thing I want more than anything else is to see Ephraim. Losing
patience I decide to try the girls’ bathroom, by now everybody should be in
class.
                I nudge the
bathroom door open with my shoulder, and hear the unmistakable sounds of a girl
crying. My stomach sinks, I was counting on alone time. On the other hand it’s
part of the unspoken girl code to comfort a crying girl. I sigh and push the
door all the way open.
                It’s a
large bathroom but long and narrow rather than spacious. There are rows of
sinks and mirrors against one wall, a row of stalls against the other. A girl
from the girls’ basketball team, I think her name’s Dakota, is standing in
front of the mirror staring into her own eyes and crying. Huge shuddering sobs
rock her body back and forth in a crazy, lurching rhythm. Snot and tears and
little bubbles of spit are running down her face and chin. She gags, coughing
up mucus. Her hands are bent into claws. Dragging her fingernails against the
milky white of her inner arm she cuts deeply, sending welts of blood surging to
the surface. Her other arm is already a chewed up mess of blood and torn
tissue. I stare, transfixed as she scratches again.
                “Stop,
Dakota, stop!” I scream. She doesn’t turn to me; she just cries harder and keeps
scratching. I grab her hands tightly. It takes all my strength to hold onto
her. She jerks violently in my grasp, a huge spasm going through her body. Her
knees start to buckle and we both slide down to the floor. A hair-raising keen
rises up in her throat. She lays twitching in my arms, crying and gagging and
then goes very still. My hands scramble over her neck, feeling for a heartbeat,
listening for breath and wishing I paid a hell of a lot more attention in first
aid. She’s alive, she’s breathing, what now? I slide a blood covered hand into
my pocket and dial.
     
    The paramedics take
Dakota away wrapped in a blanket on the stretcher. Her face has the same slack-skinned,
ashen look to it I saw on Matt’s the morning before. One of the paramedics threw
a rough wool blanket around my shoulders as I crouched on the bathroom floor
next to them. I still have it on my shoulders as I sit in the office, shivering
despite the blanket. I’m in one of the burgundy visitor chairs again. I keep my
eyes riveted on the carpet before me. I can hear concerned murmurings. A parade
of polished black shoes and snub nosed flats move through my field of vision.
In that ever thinning cone of vision I see my own arms, the knees of my jeans,
even my hands are all smeared