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She paces the opposite side of the room, trying to goad me into acknowledging her, but instead, I hum to myself. It's a parched melody from my dry throat and cotton-mouth. A broken song from my shattered heart; aiming to block her out.
I've concluded that the only way to make her pay for what she did to Jake, to Deanna, and to me, is to make it so she can't push anymore.
There is only one way to do that.
To stop Avery, I must stop myself. And if starving myself doesn't work, then the very first time I have the opportunity to grab a ballpoint pen. A sharp pencil. A real fork. A needle. I'm going to take care of her.
53
-Angel
Off-white cushions.
No pictures.
No furniture.
Only me and four padded walls.
A soft floor and no shoes.
This room is a blank canvas. My mind needs to fill it with something, that's all. It wants to create things that aren't there to help pass the unforgiving time.
"It was all you, Angel." Avery stops pacing the room and points an accusing finger at me. "You said you loved him. Then you screwed that troll, Troy Bleecher! All the time. If I had any food in my stomach, I'd fucking puke."
That's the tender point of my raw nerves and she knows it. I fall to my knees. It's not true, I tell myself, but I am the one who created Avery. Her purpose was to take the pain for me.
She did and now she hates me for it.
"You can't ignore me forever. I won't let you."
I want to argue with her or punch her in her stupid pointy face, but that would mean acknowledging her.
Along the blank wall, I imagine Doctor Williams is sitting in her armed chair in the corner opposite Avery's. I try to hear the soothing ocean sounds that filled her office at each appointment and think of how-if she were really here-the two would stare at each other. Avery, all bird-like and wild. Doctor Williams, mature, patient, and clueless as ever.
She eases back into her seat like she used to in the early sessions and slides her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Violence is never the answer, girls."
54
-Angel
From my plastic chair, I pretend not to see Avery walking in circles around the common room and rolling her eyes at the conversations some of the other patients are having.
Avery. Bane of my existence. Just thinking her name makes my face hot. She seems so sure of herself as she strolls around, eyeing everyone but me. Does she even care that I am the one everyone sees-the one with the body?
My shrink says that she has no more power than what I give to her. I control myself, not her.
They changed my meds, I think, because I've leveled out. I've had a whole week of continuity, where I can think through the haze. I can even make Avery keep her mouth shut for a few hours at a stretch. Sometimes. Even with the clarity, though, I still feel like the retarded second-cousin of a drooling monkey. Inside the haze is non-existent, but on the outside my reactions are delayed. I stumble around like a drunk after they dose me.
I wonder if she feels the mental clarity and the sluggishness like I do as the plastic spoon I'm holding dribbles pudding down my shirt. My hands feel so alien, I'm not sure it's actually me holding the spoon. I let the little cup of brown goo fall onto the table and leave the blob of chocolate to dribble down my chest. I was just going to puke it up later anyway.
I'm a filthy, useless invalid.
Avery takes a seat in a far corner of the cafeteria. When her hands perch over her growling stomach, I find encouragement. Keeping my determined gaze on her, I wait for her to turn and meet my stare.
It's a risk, but I'm feeling lucky.
I can't actually talk to her without anyone noticing and so speak the threat with my eyes.
