etched in gray on the back. Callum got this for me. I choke on my laughter.
I like this Callum guy.
Using my elbow, I flip the light switch and the room goes dark. I laugh again, this time at how easy it all is.
Getting to sleep, however, is another story.
Exhaustion tugs at my eyelids, but I resist it. I donât know how long I spend with my eyes wide-open, blinking at the ceiling. I last as long as I can, until I own the truth:
Iâm afraid.
There are places in my mind where I donât want to go. Thereâs a white room. And in the white room is a knife of a man. And in the knife-manâs hand there are sharp tools. And in this place, Iâll never be whole again. My memories are the opposite of lullabies.
Youâre safe , I tell myself. Itâs okay to close your eyes. But when sleep grips at me with both hands, I still fight.
I fight until I canât anymore; Iâm too tired.
I donât go willingly to those places, but I do go.
White walls, the color of a bodyâa dead body. A new dead body, floating down the strait. I wake, but not really: the dead donât wake. And here, weâre all dead. I am a star that died long ago. Death always catches up, though. The doctor wears white because even she is dead. This is a place only the dead go. Her needle is full.
A black bird circles the room.
The room stops being white. Weâre still dead, though. Dead in a dark, wide bowl, where hundreds of stars have been shoved into tiny lightbulbs. They donât fall for our wishes anymore. Theyâre losing light, because their home is out there, somewhere in the universe. I want to help them fall. In the dark, wide bowl I make a promise to the dead stars.
I will bring you back to life , I tell them, and they believe.
The doctor locks both my arms together. I donât fight back. Itâs always been like this. Iâm always lying, locked and looking up while the black bird circles.
A knife without a face reaches for my hand.
Why am I doing nothing?
Because you are dead, I remind myself. You were not born a black bird.
The knife has a voice that is also a knife. It makes my ears bleed. But that canât be rightâthe dead donât bleed. The knife doesnât care. Youâre dead , he says, and then he tells me heâs not even a real knife. Heâs just a toy knife, and toy knives donât really hurt. Heâs lying , I think.
The toy knife that is not a toy comes down across my wrists.
The black bird shrieks.
Two white wings fall onto a white floor.
The wings flap, and I die twice.
I push at the air, the sheets, but I still canât make myself move. Only Ren can do that. And then Iâm being shakenâ
I shoot out of the bed, gasping for air, pushing her away with a gauze-covered stump. Iâm crying and I canât stop it: thereâs a knife still in the room, because itâs still in my head, which means it will never go away.
Ren sits at the edge of the bed, eyes big with fear. She reaches one arm out toward me, like Iâm a ghost back from the dead.
Iâve scared her with my nightmares. âIâm all right,â I whisper quietly, watching her chew on her knuckles.
She touches my shoulder with the hand sheâs not chewing. âAre you?â she asks, and I hate it.
My dragon anger is back, burning my insides andeverything around me. âIâm fine!â I yell at her, but I canât yank the covers without fingers. Instead, I bury my head under the pillow, wishing that I werenât made of glass.
Iâm not .
Iâm not broken.
18
REN
2:30 P.M., FRIDAY
A fternoon sun punches through the windows, beating me awake too soon. When I open my eyes, I find Iâm holding a palmful of Avenâs tangled hair, like Iâd been afraid sheâd disappear in her sleep and Iâd never get her back. She frowns, snoring ever so slightly, while the sun threatens the room with light. Donât you
I like this Callum guy.
Using my elbow, I flip the light switch and the room goes dark. I laugh again, this time at how easy it all is.
Getting to sleep, however, is another story.
Exhaustion tugs at my eyelids, but I resist it. I donât know how long I spend with my eyes wide-open, blinking at the ceiling. I last as long as I can, until I own the truth:
Iâm afraid.
There are places in my mind where I donât want to go. Thereâs a white room. And in the white room is a knife of a man. And in the knife-manâs hand there are sharp tools. And in this place, Iâll never be whole again. My memories are the opposite of lullabies.
Youâre safe , I tell myself. Itâs okay to close your eyes. But when sleep grips at me with both hands, I still fight.
I fight until I canât anymore; Iâm too tired.
I donât go willingly to those places, but I do go.
White walls, the color of a bodyâa dead body. A new dead body, floating down the strait. I wake, but not really: the dead donât wake. And here, weâre all dead. I am a star that died long ago. Death always catches up, though. The doctor wears white because even she is dead. This is a place only the dead go. Her needle is full.
A black bird circles the room.
The room stops being white. Weâre still dead, though. Dead in a dark, wide bowl, where hundreds of stars have been shoved into tiny lightbulbs. They donât fall for our wishes anymore. Theyâre losing light, because their home is out there, somewhere in the universe. I want to help them fall. In the dark, wide bowl I make a promise to the dead stars.
I will bring you back to life , I tell them, and they believe.
The doctor locks both my arms together. I donât fight back. Itâs always been like this. Iâm always lying, locked and looking up while the black bird circles.
A knife without a face reaches for my hand.
Why am I doing nothing?
Because you are dead, I remind myself. You were not born a black bird.
The knife has a voice that is also a knife. It makes my ears bleed. But that canât be rightâthe dead donât bleed. The knife doesnât care. Youâre dead , he says, and then he tells me heâs not even a real knife. Heâs just a toy knife, and toy knives donât really hurt. Heâs lying , I think.
The toy knife that is not a toy comes down across my wrists.
The black bird shrieks.
Two white wings fall onto a white floor.
The wings flap, and I die twice.
I push at the air, the sheets, but I still canât make myself move. Only Ren can do that. And then Iâm being shakenâ
I shoot out of the bed, gasping for air, pushing her away with a gauze-covered stump. Iâm crying and I canât stop it: thereâs a knife still in the room, because itâs still in my head, which means it will never go away.
Ren sits at the edge of the bed, eyes big with fear. She reaches one arm out toward me, like Iâm a ghost back from the dead.
Iâve scared her with my nightmares. âIâm all right,â I whisper quietly, watching her chew on her knuckles.
She touches my shoulder with the hand sheâs not chewing. âAre you?â she asks, and I hate it.
My dragon anger is back, burning my insides andeverything around me. âIâm fine!â I yell at her, but I canât yank the covers without fingers. Instead, I bury my head under the pillow, wishing that I werenât made of glass.
Iâm not .
Iâm not broken.
18
REN
2:30 P.M., FRIDAY
A fternoon sun punches through the windows, beating me awake too soon. When I open my eyes, I find Iâm holding a palmful of Avenâs tangled hair, like Iâd been afraid sheâd disappear in her sleep and Iâd never get her back. She frowns, snoring ever so slightly, while the sun threatens the room with light. Donât you
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