Page 5 of Marked By Tank
The thought should feel wild, impossible, too ugly to be true.
It doesn’t.
It fits.
The woman takes a small step closer. “You need to pull yourself together.”
I laugh once.
It sounds cracked and thin and not like me at all.
“I’m drugged.”
“Yes.”
There is no softness in it.
No apology.
Just fact.
I grip the edge of the vanity because my hands need something to do. “Why?”
“Because frightened girls make scenes.”
The words land flat.
Maybe because I am too dazed for them to cut all the way through. Maybe because some part of me is already stepping back inside my own head, trying to get away from what my body knows.
I think of my mother.
Before the hospital. Before the funeral.
Her hand smoothing my hair back from my face.
Her voice saying my name softly when the rest of the world felt too loud.
For a second, I can almost feel her.
Then it is gone.
A knock sounds at the door.
“One minute.”
The woman glances toward it, then back at me. “Walk when they tell you to. Stand where they put you. Do not make trouble.”
I should say something. I should tell her to go to hell. I should scream. Throw the lamp. Break the mirror. Do anything except stand here swaying in a chemise while the drug keeps pulling me under.
Instead, I just look at her.
My thoughts feel slow.
My skin feels too tight.
My body feels far away.
The woman comes closer and lifts a hand to smooth my hair away from my face. I flinch, but not fast enough to stop her.
