The Midnight Circus, стр. 26
It’smorning now, and I’m back, looking for something sharp. Orderlies havecleaned up the mirror; I think Mr. L found the piece I had hidden underthe mattress. It doesn’t matter—I can always find something. Paperclips stolen from the office, plastic silverware cracked just right,even a ragged fingernail can break the skin if you have the courage.
Albyfaces the wall and traces imaginary coastlines on the white cement. Sheis dark and elfin, her hair shorn brutally close to her scalp exceptfor one long tress that hangs behind her left ear. “Why do you wind himup like that?”
“Windup who?” My voice is rough with disuse. Is it the next morning? Or havedays passed? “And how?”
“Mr.L. The things you say to him . . .” Shuddering, Alby looks more wetterrier than girl. “If you’d just walk the line, I’m sure he’d leaveyou alone.”
Havingno memory of speaking to Mr. L at all, I just shrug.“Walk the line. Walk the path. What’s the difference?”
“Promise?”
“Okay.”
“Yeah,play the game, let them think you’re getting better.” Albystraightens up, picturing home, I figure. She’s got one to go back to.Wooden fence. Two-car garage. Mom and dad and a bowl full of breakfastcereal. No grandma making lemonade on a cold Sunday evening. Noneedles. No pins.
It’smy turn to shudder. “I don’t want to get better. They might send mehome.”
Albystares at me. She has no answer to that. I turn to the bed. Startpicking at the mattress, wondering if there are springs inside theseold things. Alby faces the wall, her finger already winding a new paththrough the cracks. We all pass the time in our own way.
Weget a new therapist the next day. We’re always getting new ones. Theystay a few weeks, a few months, and then gone.
Thisone wants us to write in journals. She gives us beautifully boundbooks, cloth covers with flowers and bunnies and unicorns and things,to put our ugly secrets in.
“Minehas Rainbow Brite.” Alby is either excited or disgusted, I can’t tellwhich.
Joellesays, “They should be snot colored. They should bebrown like . . .” She means shit. She never uses the word though.
“Iwant you to start thinking beautiful thoughts, Joelle,” the therapistsays. She has all our names memorized already. I think, This onewill only last two weeks. Long enough for us ruin the covers. Longenough for Joelle to rub her brown stuff on the pages.
Iput my hand on my own journal. It has these pretty flowers all over. Iwill write down my thoughts. But they won’t be beautiful.
CUTTER
scissorsfillet knife
abroken piece of glass
Ican’t press hard enough
to domore than scratch the surface
and blood isn’t red
untilit touches the air
Okay,so it doesn’t rhyme and I can’t use it as a song, but it’s true.
“Whatdid you write, Red?” Alby asks.
Joellehas already left for the bathroom. I don’t look forward to the smellfrom her book.
“Beautifulthoughts.” I cover the poem with my hand. It is beautiful, Idecide. Dark and beautiful, like I am when I dream.
“LittleRed.” Mr. L stands in the doorway. “Excuse me, Augustine. I need to seethat one.”
Hepoints at me. I go away.
Four-footedand thick-furred, I stalk through a shadowy forest. My prey is justahead of me—I can hear his ragged breathing, his terror-sweat. Longpink tongue to one side, I leap forward, galloping now. I burst througha flowering thornbush and catch sight of him: Mr. L, naked and coveredin gray hair. I can smell his terror. Then I am on him, and my sharpteeth rip into his flesh. Bones crack and I taste marrow, sweetcounterpoint to his salty blood.
Iwake in the infirmary, arms and legs purple with fresh bruises.
“Jesus,Red,” Alby says. “He really worked you over this time, didn’t he?”
“Iguess.” I don’t remember. Seems likely, though.
“Looks like you got himone too, though.”
“Oh,yeah?” I can hardly move, though I turn my head toward the sound of hervoice.
Albygrins her pixie smile. “Yeah. Got a big bandage on his neck, he does.”
Ilick my lips. Imagine I can taste blood. “Probably cut himself shaving.”
Hersmile fading, Alby says, “Whatever you say, Red.”
I try to roll over,turn away from her, but something holdsme down: leather straps at my ankles and wrists. One across my waist.
“Five-pointlocked leather,” Alby says, with some reverence. “You were reallygoing crazy when they brought you in. Foaming at the mouth, even.”
Ilay my head back down on the small, hard pillow. Closemy eyes. Maybe I can get back to my dream.
Mr.L visits me in the dark room with the leather straps. He has no bandageon his neck, but there are scratches there. I know why. I have his skinunder my fingernails. In my teeth.
“LittleRojo,” he says, almost lovingly, “you must learn control.”
Itry to laugh but all that comes out is a choking cough. He wandersslowly behind me, his fingers trailing through my red hair, my cap ofblood.
“Youmust learn to walk the path.” In front of me again, he glances up, atthe television camera, the one that always watches. Puts his back to it.
“Andwill you be my teacher?” I ask before spitting at him.
Helooks down at me. Smiles. “If you let me.” Then he pats my cheek.Before he can touch me again, I go away.
Theforest is cold that night and I stand on a forked road. Oneis the path of needles, one the path of pins. I don’t know which iswhich. Both are paths of pain.
Itake the left.
Idon’t know how far I travel—what is distance to me? I am a night’s walkfrom my den, a single leap from my next meal—but I am growing wearywhen the trap closes on my leg.
Sharpteeth and iron, it burns as it cuts. A howl escapes my throat, and I amthrown out of myself.
Isee Mr. L standing over the strapped body of a girl. I can’t see hishands. But I can feel them.
Helooks up as I howl again, his face caught between pleasure and pain. Itumble through the thick walls and out into the cool night sky, intothe dark forest, into my fur body.
Itear at my ankle with teeth made for the