These Gentle Wounds by Helene Dunbar Page B
Authors: Helene Dunbar
Tags: Fiction, YA), Young Adult Fiction, Young Adult, teen, teen fiction, ya fiction, ya novel, young adult novel, teen novel, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, ptsd, teen lit, teenlit
Ads: Link
grayer. I can see the muscles bulging on his neck, and it makes me a little sick to think that he works out and could probably squeeze himself into his old hockey gear.
That thought makes the back of my neck start to tingle. I pull my shoulders up and rub my temples, which doesnât keep my head from feeling like itâs going to split apart.
His mouth opens and I push myself back into the chair, waiting to hear the vulture sounds, but I donât. All I hear is blood rushing through my head.
Ms. DeSilva is staring at me the same way that Jim stares at Kevinâs meals; like Iâm a science experiment sheâs waiting to turn color or boil over.
His lips are moving, but I donât hear anything. Just whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
I look down at my watch: 18 minutes, 3 seconds, 1 tenth. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
I get up and walk over to the glass wall. Itâs cool under my hands and I can see myself reflected, along with him. I wonder if this is like the interrogation rooms on cop shows on TV. The ones where they can see in but we canât see out. I wonder if Kevin is on the other side watching me. I wonder if heâs going to be angry that my blood is so loud I canât hear anything else.
I feel Ms. DeSilvaâs arm, gentle around my shoulders. Sheâs turning me so that Iâm facing him. He puts his hand out. I look at it. Itâs calloused like I remember. And large. I used to think I only remembered his hands being so big because I was a kid, but no, theyâre still really big. Even now.
In my head I can see those hands punching Kevin over and over. My whole body shudders until I look away.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. 13 minutes. 42 seconds. 3 tenths.
I sit back down, wishing I could think about Sarah, but I donât want to think about her here. I want to think about Mom, but something about that seems wrong too. I donât want to betray her by doing that with him right in front of me.
Instead, I think about hockey. I think about skating really, really fast around the rink. Itâs the closest I can get to flying. It feels free, and light, and cold, and everything is clean, and pure, and white. If I was asked to build a rink, Iâd build one shaped like an Olympic swimming pool, long and thin. I want to skate for an hour in a single straight line, gaining speed all the time like Iâm doing in my head now.
I can feel the wind in my face and over the whooshing sound I can hear blades cutting into ice. Itâs one of my favorite sounds in the world; the call of some metallic bird flying through a frozen sky.
My breath speeds up as I zip across the surface of the ice. I want to keep skating until Iâm a million miles away from here.
Something clamps down on my shoulder and I struggle, but itâs stronger than I am. My eyelids flutter as Iâm pulled from the rink in my mind.
When I open my eyes Kevin is there, but he isnât supposed to be. I wonder if heâs going to get into trouble. I look at my watch.
8 minutes. 12 seconds. 4 tenths. Tick. Tick.
Everyone is buzzing around and making me dizzy. I wonder if this is what it feels like to pass out.
Kevin leans down and puts an arm around my neck. âThis is over.â His voice is loud and sharp and sounds like someone else.
âYes,â says Ms. DeSilva. âI agree. I think we need to stop for now.â
âWhat the hell have you done to him?â I hear, in vulture rasps.
âGet the fuck out of here,â Kevin says, in a tone I havenât heard him use in years. I get a whiff of Ms. DeSilvaâs perfume as she crosses in front of me, and suddenly weâre alone. Just me and Kevin. I breathe a sigh of relief.
âAre you okay?â he asks. His voice is still weird, like heâd punch something with it if he could. His hands are clenched so tight his knuckles are white.
I nod. âYeah. I was ⦠I was skating,â I know it sounds weird, but I expect my
That thought makes the back of my neck start to tingle. I pull my shoulders up and rub my temples, which doesnât keep my head from feeling like itâs going to split apart.
His mouth opens and I push myself back into the chair, waiting to hear the vulture sounds, but I donât. All I hear is blood rushing through my head.
Ms. DeSilva is staring at me the same way that Jim stares at Kevinâs meals; like Iâm a science experiment sheâs waiting to turn color or boil over.
His lips are moving, but I donât hear anything. Just whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
I look down at my watch: 18 minutes, 3 seconds, 1 tenth. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
I get up and walk over to the glass wall. Itâs cool under my hands and I can see myself reflected, along with him. I wonder if this is like the interrogation rooms on cop shows on TV. The ones where they can see in but we canât see out. I wonder if Kevin is on the other side watching me. I wonder if heâs going to be angry that my blood is so loud I canât hear anything else.
I feel Ms. DeSilvaâs arm, gentle around my shoulders. Sheâs turning me so that Iâm facing him. He puts his hand out. I look at it. Itâs calloused like I remember. And large. I used to think I only remembered his hands being so big because I was a kid, but no, theyâre still really big. Even now.
In my head I can see those hands punching Kevin over and over. My whole body shudders until I look away.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. 13 minutes. 42 seconds. 3 tenths.
I sit back down, wishing I could think about Sarah, but I donât want to think about her here. I want to think about Mom, but something about that seems wrong too. I donât want to betray her by doing that with him right in front of me.
Instead, I think about hockey. I think about skating really, really fast around the rink. Itâs the closest I can get to flying. It feels free, and light, and cold, and everything is clean, and pure, and white. If I was asked to build a rink, Iâd build one shaped like an Olympic swimming pool, long and thin. I want to skate for an hour in a single straight line, gaining speed all the time like Iâm doing in my head now.
I can feel the wind in my face and over the whooshing sound I can hear blades cutting into ice. Itâs one of my favorite sounds in the world; the call of some metallic bird flying through a frozen sky.
My breath speeds up as I zip across the surface of the ice. I want to keep skating until Iâm a million miles away from here.
Something clamps down on my shoulder and I struggle, but itâs stronger than I am. My eyelids flutter as Iâm pulled from the rink in my mind.
When I open my eyes Kevin is there, but he isnât supposed to be. I wonder if heâs going to get into trouble. I look at my watch.
8 minutes. 12 seconds. 4 tenths. Tick. Tick.
Everyone is buzzing around and making me dizzy. I wonder if this is what it feels like to pass out.
Kevin leans down and puts an arm around my neck. âThis is over.â His voice is loud and sharp and sounds like someone else.
âYes,â says Ms. DeSilva. âI agree. I think we need to stop for now.â
âWhat the hell have you done to him?â I hear, in vulture rasps.
âGet the fuck out of here,â Kevin says, in a tone I havenât heard him use in years. I get a whiff of Ms. DeSilvaâs perfume as she crosses in front of me, and suddenly weâre alone. Just me and Kevin. I breathe a sigh of relief.
âAre you okay?â he asks. His voice is still weird, like heâd punch something with it if he could. His hands are clenched so tight his knuckles are white.
I nod. âYeah. I was ⦠I was skating,â I know it sounds weird, but I expect my
Similar Books
