Skinned Read Online Free PDF Page B

I punched her in the face. Her nose spurted blood all over both of us. She threw up. I passed out. It’s the one thing we’d always had in common: Fear of blood. Fear of doctors. Fear of hospitals. Fear of anything that stinks of sick.
    But here I was, inches from a dead body. My dead body. Inches from flesh that looked like raw meat, a crumpled face, an empty skull cavity. Listening to a stranger describe, in detail, all the ways he’d torn me to pieces. And I didn’t feel sick. I didn’t feel anything.
    I don’t just mean on the outside, like the chair under my ass or my ass or the straps digging into my waist and forehead or call-me-Ben’s hand on my shoulder, the same hand he’d used to pull back the body’s sheet. It was that, but it wasn’t just that. I couldn’t feel anything on the inside, either. I wasn’t nauseated; I wasn’t dizzy. My stomach wasn’t clenched; there was no hollowness at the base of my throat, warning me I was about to explode into tears. I wasn’t breathing quickly. I wasn’t breathing at all. I wasn’t trembling, although even if I had been, I wouldn’t have known.
    My brain—or whatever was up there—told me I was horrified. And furious. And terrified. And disgusted. I knew I was all of those things. But I couldn’t feel it. They were just words. Adjectives pertaining to emotional affect that modified nouns pertaining to organic life-forms.
    I no longer qualified.

MOUTH CLOSED
     
    “You don’t need a tongue to sound like a sheep.”
     
    I don’t want to talk about it.” Translation: “I don’t want to think about it.”
    It didn’t matter how much crap they spewed about adjustment pains and emotional connection and statistically probable results of repression, there was no way in hell some random middle-aged loser was milking me for intimate details of my daily life in hell, aka rehab. No matter how many times she asked.
    “It’s okay if you don’t feel ready.” Sascha leaned back in her chair, her head almost touching the window. “You may never feel ready. Sometimes we need to just take a risk, have faith in our own strength.”
    She had a corner office on the thirteenth floor, which meant a 180-degree view of the woods surrounding the BioMax building. I’d only seen one other floor: the ninth. That was where they stored the bodies until it was time to destroy them. Mine wasn’t there anymore. I knew, because I’d asked Sascha. They burn the bodies. They don’t bury them—You only bury people who are dead. The bodies are just medical waste. I told Sascha, no, I didn’t want the ashes. She said it was a positive sign.
    “I don’t need faith,” I said. “I know my own strength. I do fifty push-ups every morning. Sit-ups, too. It’s in your report.” It was easier to talk than to sit there for an hour in silence, although I’d tried that, too. I’d probably try it again. One thing about my new life, or whatever I was supposed to call it: I had plenty of time.
    She frowned, then templed her fingers and rested her chin on her fingertips. “I think you know I’m not talking about that kind of strength.”
    I shrugged.
    “It’s natural to be concerned about how your family will react to the new you,” she said.
    “They’ve seen the new me.”
    “It’s been a month, Lia. You’ve made remarkable progress since then. Don’t you want to show off a little?”
    “Show off what? That I learned how to take a few steps without falling on my face? That I figured out how to make actual words with this thing in my throat?” I gave her one of the smiles I’d been working on, knowing—from the hours I’d spent practicing in the mirror—that it looked more like a grimace. “Yay, me. I’m finally better off than a two-year-old.”
    Sascha hated sarcasm. Probably because she didn’t get it. After all, if she’d had an acceptable IQ, she would have been on some other floor, building new people like me, rather than stuck on lucky thirteen, upping my