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can go a number of ways,
I realize. Darla has pulled
Erica off to one side of the room.
Surely Darla notices the state of her high
or the stench of meth sweat.
Ashante stands in the doorway,
holding my blanket and sucking her thumb.
“Tell them,” I plead. “Tell them what
she did to you.” Her eyes look like
they’ll pop right out of her face.
Suddenly I notice crimson
drip-dripping onto my shirt. I try
to reach up, find the source,
but Phil still has a death grip
on my arms. “Am I bleeding?”
His squeeze relaxes some.
Let me see. He spins me around,
draws in his breath. Uh, yeah.
You’d better clean that up. He lets
go of me. Come right back, okay?
THAT BAD, HUH?
I go to the bathroom,
flip on the light switch.
Aagh! No wonder
Ashante looked so
scared. This is ugly.
Striping the right side
of my face from eyebrow
to cheek is a long, narrow
gash. Not a scratch.
