Every Ugly Word Page 18

  My jaw feels like iron. I am sinking back to that place. I don’t want to go. Against my will, images of that day come to me in flashes.

  Karyn standing behind Finn, arms folded, staring at my portfolio.

  Karyn ripping off the little pieces of Matt’s eyes. His nose. His ear.

  Finn holding my arms as Karyn destroyed it all. Every last piece that should have taken me to New York.

  The cold, hard floor where I fell, sobbing.

  The laughter and taunts echoing in my ears.

  The knowing that everything was gone—Matt, my future, my last chance at a life.

  What happened after that was . . . not me. It was Someone Else.

  Someone Else stumbled upright and put a foot through my father’s silhouette.

  Someone Else punched a hole in Dex’s chest.

  Someone Else stomped on my mother’s face.

  Someone Else grabbed the easel and swung it toward Finn’s head.

  And when hands closed around my legs, and a voice shouted STOP! it didn’t matter.

  Because the sound that left my mouth wasn’t mine. The momentum of the easel left me hurtling toward the wall. Toward the mirror.

  I tumbled into that shining surface so fast I barely had time to think, yes.

  Let it all be over.

  Please.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I take another deep breath, squeezing out the last of the tears.

  Doc waits. I can hear his breath sliding in and out. When I look up, his face is blank.

  “That was a very traumatic day for you,” he says quietly.

  I nod. Swallow. “Yes. It was.”

  Doc looks down at his notepad. “You were injured very badly.”

  I nod, though it’s the understatement of the century.

  “Ashley . . . did you want to die that day?”

  I tip my head against the back of the chair and swallow more tears.

  “I wished I was dead,” I say quietly. “It’s not the same thing.”

  Doc is quiet for a moment, shuffling papers. “You’re right,” he says eventually. “But I wonder . . . I wonder if your role was perhaps a little more . . . active than you’ve suggested?”

  I jerk my head up. “What are you saying?”

  Doc’s expression says he wants me to think he’s not enjoying this. “According to the school’s report, Finn and Karyn found you in the art room tearing up your own work, crying, babbling incoherently.”

  “Finn and Karyn lied to cover their own asses,” I say through gritted teeth.

  Doc nods, but his face doesn’t look like he agrees with me. “Your teacher said she knew something was wrong when you showed up that afternoon. That was the reason she left assembly early to come back to the art room. She sensed something in you that made her uneasy. Something . . . destructive?”

  I give him an angry look and clench my teeth harder. “Of course I was in bad shape. I’d just been humiliated in front of the entire school and accused of being an embarrassment by my mom!”

  “And it was your older self—your future self, whom you see in the mirror—that convinced you to go back?”

  Where was he going with this? “I wouldn’t say she convinced me. She let me see the potential of what I had. That New York was still possible . . .” I trail off. Because, of course, it wasn’t possible. Not after what Karyn and Finn had done to my work.

  Doc drops his pen on the notebook and rubs a hand over his face. “Ashley, your story—”

  “I didn’t try to kill myself,” I snap.

  He stares, disbelieving, like I am a difficult child. He carefully picks up his notebook and the pen, placing them on the coffee table between us, and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His glasses make his eyes look bigger as he rubs his hands together and fixes me with what I assume is supposed to be a comforting expression.

  “I’m going to be completely honest with you, Ashley. I don’t think you’re ready to leave this facility.”

  The clock ticks twice before the implications of those words sink in.

  “You can’t be serious.” I spring to my feet.

  “I am deadly serious,” Doc says calmly, sitting back. “I wanted to hear your account of this because if you’d owned up to what happened that day, told me the truth of it, I could have been sure that you see things differently now. But as it stands, I fear for your stability. I fear for what you might do to yourself—or to others—if I were to let you loose.”

  “Let me loose? I’m a human being, not an unlicensed dog!”

  He tips his head and gives me a stern look. “Precisely why I am not about to let you go if you might hurt yourself or someone else. I value you, Ashley. Perhaps more than you value yourself.”

  I bark a laugh. The irony is so thick it is suffocating. “No one—no one!—values me more than I value myself, Doc. I wouldn’t be here today if I didn’t count myself as something precious.”

  He blinks, hearing the depth of meaning in my words, no doubt. But he won’t understand them. Not yet.

  I glance at the clock. It says 2:14. He can’t do this. Not when I am so close!

  Doc follows my gaze, frowns, and turns back to me. “I’m glad to hear you speak so highly of yourself,” he says eventually. Dubiously. “I won’t be alone in hoping that attitude continues.”

  Now I can hear something behind his words.

  I glare at him, search his blank and passive face. For a moment I hate him. “What do you mean?” I blurt.

  His brow creases. The stripes of beard that frame his mouth are bent by his frown. He leans his temple on one fist, examining me. “I’m trying to decide if, under the circumstances, the course of action I’d planned is still worth pursuing,” he says quietly.

  My heart thrums. “What. Do. You. Mean?”

  He considers me for a moment, then his mouth opens. Adrenaline floods my system, because somehow I know whatever he’s about to say is going to change the game. But he’s interrupted by a knock at the door.

  Both Doc and I go still. We’re staring at each other.

  Then it sounds again, slightly faster this time, and I raise a brow at him. Doc hesitates, then murmurs, “Excuse me,” and pushes himself out of his plush chair, weaves his way around the glossy coffee table, past his desk, and checks through a tiny peephole in the door. Designed, no doubt, to keep Doc safe in the event that a psychotic ex-patient with a grudge comes knocking.

  I’m beginning to see the appeal.

  But it’s not a psycho, apparently, because Doc reaches for the combination lock and starts pressing numbers.

  My head whirls.

  He isn’t going to sign me out. Should I try to run when the door is open?

  I get to my feet and take slow, faltering steps up behind Doc. I’m not going to be able to shove out the door with that duffel on my back. I’ll have to leave it.

  “. . . very sorry about the late notice, but I think we can make it quick. I appreciate you coming,” Doc murmurs, pulling the door wider.

  I brace, watching the slice of sunlight along the door widen. My hands are clenched into fists so tightly I can feel my nails digging into my palms.

  Then I hear his voice.

  “Ashley?”

  The word—it’s just a word!—slices me open. I make a tiny noise and slowly look up from the brown leather shoes, to the waist that is thicker than it used to be, but still firm and tight. To the shoulders that I have gripped, and hugged, and cried on for almost six years. Almost. Until the day he threw me at my mom and together they got me committed. My gaze slides up to the hard line of his jaw, the butter-smooth finish of his cheeks, the bright but wary blue of his eyes.

  “M-Matt?” I gasp, both hands flying to my mouth.

  Matt glances at Doc, then back to me. He wipes his hands on his thighs. “How are you?” The words are stilted. Awkward.

  I’m not sure what expression lands on my face, but all I can think is, Seriously?

  Matt’s he
ad jerks back, just a tiny bit. Fear flashes in his eyes.

  He is afraid. Of me. I don’t know whether to laugh, or cry. I look at Doc, mouth open to ask him what the hell he was thinking, when he answers the question I haven’t asked.

  “Matt, take a seat. Ashley, I asked Matt to come today because I felt like his perspective on your past, on the events leading up to that day, might help you . . . process.”

  “Process?”

  “I think the problems you’ve had over the past few years all stem from those days—from the way you feel about yourself as a result of the bullying and cruelty you experienced.”

  “Cruelty?” When in shock I become a parrot, apparently.

  Doc nods. “And I think you need to be honest with yourself about just how dark things got on that day. For you. About how you . . . how your self-destructive tendencies may have . . . peaked.”

  My mouth opens twice before I’m able to get the words out. “Finn pushed me through that mirror,” I finally manage from between my teeth. “I told you that.”

  A deep sigh rises from the circle of chairs and couches. Matt has settled himself into the chair I was sitting in. He isn’t facing us, but he’s shaking his head.

  “No one asked for your opinion,” I snap.

  “Actually, I did,” Doc says quietly, unapologetic. “Let’s take a seat, Ashley. This won’t take long.”

  Doc leads by example, wending his way back to his chair, and sweeping a hand toward the thick seat on the other side of the coffee table. Next to Matt.

  I walk behind Matt’s chair so I can’t feel him watching, and take the seat to his left.

  My entire right side tingles with awareness of him, and I hate myself for it.

  We are all silent for a moment. Doc shuffles papers. I play with the frayed hem on the sleeve of my hoodie and avoid Matt’s eyes. I can see him looking between me and Doc.

  “So . . . where are we at?” he says.

  Doc finds what he wants, sets it on his knee, and puts the rest of his notes on the coffee table. Then he looks up.

  “I have been with Ashley all day,” he says, as if this is a gift and we should both be thankful. Strangely, I am not overwhelmed with gratitude in that moment. “I’ve learned a lot, and she has definitely opened up. However . . . just before you arrived, we met with what I would describe as an obstacle to her recovery.”

  I snort. “Telling the truth is an obstacle now, is it?”

  Doc shoots me a glance, then returns his attention to Matt. “Matt, I told you the reason I wanted you here today was because I believed your perspective on the events of that day could help Ashley see it more clearly.”

  “I’m seeing fine,” I mutter. “I didn’t try to kill myself.”

  Matt’s head whips around and his frown has become stern disapproval. “I disagree,” he says sharply.

  My anger fuels my courage. I meet his gaze with my mouth open to demonstrate how incredulous I am. “You weren’t even there.”

  “Yes, I was. You just don’t remember because you were too busy destroying everything.”

  I shake my head. “If you’d been there, you would have seen Finn tackle me.”

  “When I walked in, I saw you throwing an easel, then Finn trying to stop you from throwing yourself through the mirror.”

  I am livid. “I can’t believe you’re still defending him after all this time!”

  “I’m not defending him! I’m telling you what I saw!”

  “Great! Then talk about how my art had been completely destroyed! Talk about how Finn told me he wanted me dead! Talk about that!”

  Matt’s jaw flexes. But it is Doc who responds.

  “Ashley, from what you described, Karyn only tore three or four pieces—”

  “Just enough to ruin any chance I had of getting a portfolio together for New York,” I snap. “You guys are just as blind as they were. Don’t you get it? Don’t you understand what these people do? They take everything. They roll over you time and time and time again until you don’t have any strength left. Then they laugh and do it again, just to make sure you don’t have an ounce of self-respect, either. Those two people ruined my life, and now you want me to say that they were trying to help me? I’m not the insane person at this table!” I yell and push to my feet.

  “Ashley,” Doc says in his most patronizing tone.

  I cut him off. “I need to walk.”

  “Ash,” Matt begins.

  My hand flexes, wanting to touch him. I curl my fingers into a fist and force myself to walk away, toward the door. Toward freedom.

  Matt is staring at my back. I can feel his gaze on the back of my neck.

  “Ash,” he says again, softer this time. “I’ve never said they didn’t hurt you, or that they were right for . . . for what they did. I’m just worried that you won’t admit that you also hurt yourself.”

  I throw up my hands and keep pacing. My reflection moves in the mirror and I turn my face away because it is too painful. I am failing. I am failing her and she doesn’t even know it yet.

  I stop, turn on my heel and face the men who’ve remained in their seats. Doc has removed his glasses and is holding them in one hand as he tips back, legs crossed, to examine me.

  Matt sits forward in his chair, as if he might rise. But there is fear on his face and I am reminded that he has never fully believed in me. Never.

  Even our good days were underlined with doubt.

  Matt opens his mouth and I brace. But Doc raises a hand to stop him.

  “Ashley,” Doc says, “I believe that on that day, you were so unhappy, so under pressure, that you were capable of making decisions you wouldn’t have made any other day in your life. We call it a breaking point. I believe you reached your breaking point that day, and there is no shame in that.”

  I snort. “I don’t feel shame because I didn’t do it.” Not intentionally.

  Matt shakes his head. His face drags toward the floor and I feel a pang at his grief. Unable to keep watching him, I turn, begin to pace again. But suddenly the movement in the mirror doesn’t match my own and I’m drawn to a stop in front of it, my adrenaline pumping.

  Little Me’s already in the art room. Of course she is. I told her to go back to school. I told her, and I didn’t warn her about what was going to happen.

  I thought about what Doc said. About how I only thought about me. My life. All the times I hadn’t told Ashley what was coming while hoping it would go differently . . . Was I protecting her? Or myself? Did I need her to experience what I had experienced to validate my own decisions? My own mistakes?

  And that’s when I realize . . .

  For history to change, history will need to repeat.

  The clock says 2:30. I glance at the mirror, looming to my right, and swallow again. Could I do it here? If I had to? Even if it means proving Doc right?

  My muscles turn to stone in the same moment Little Me catches sight of me in the mirror.

  She’s in the art room, tightening screws on three easels, which are holding her boards for the competition. She’s got most of the pieces already attached, but a couple are stacked neatly against the opposite wall. She stops moving for a moment when she sees me, then turns back to the easel.

  “Hello,” she says. She is still angry. Still aching from the blow.

  I swallow. “Hi,” I say through rapidly gathering tears. “Ashley, I know this is going to sound weird, and I know my timing sucks, but I have something to tell you.”

  Both Matt and Doc gasp. “Who are you talking to, Ashley?” Matt says in a voice two steps too high. I ignore him.

  I am fixed now. I know what I have to do. I have failed in freeing myself, but at least I can still free her. “Ashley?” I say.

  She sighs, stands straight and turns to face me. “What?”

  “You know all those times I refused to tell you the future?” My voice cracks.

  She nods.

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  Chapter Thirty-two


  I’m standing in the middle of Doc’s floor, staring at the huge mirror he brought in to try and intimidate me, and finally I am grateful. He’s given me the opportunity to make this right.

  Matt’s gaping at me from his chair, while Doc looks professionally disappointed.

  Like I care.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and meet Little Me’s stunned expression.

  “What?” she says.

  “You have to listen to me, and you have to do exactly what I say if you want to get to New York, okay?”

  “Oh-kay.” She breaks the word into two doubtful syllables. My hands tighten. I know she’s doubting herself. I will her to believe what I’m about to say.

  There are whispers behind me, footsteps. Then Matt is at my shoulder. “Ash, honey, what are you doing?”

  I don’t take my eyes off Little Me. She’s standing there, shoulders slumped. I remember the heaviness of that day and I want to cry.

  I blink to press the tears back. “I get it, all right? I was there too. It feels like too much. They’ve won. They’ve scared Matt off. They’ve destroyed your self-portrait. And everyone is laughing. Your skin is crawling, you hate yourself, and you hate them. But you’re trapped.” I have to work hard to keep my voice above a whisper. “You have to get out.”

  Little Me squirms. Unshed tears shine. “Stop,” she says.

  I shake my head. “I won’t. And I won’t leave you alone, okay? I’m going to be here the whole time. And I’m going to help you.”

  “Help with w-what?” she asks.

  “Ash, please . . .” Matt touches my arm and I yank it away without looking at him.

  I take a deep breath. “In a few minutes, Finn and Karyn are going to arrive,” I tell her softly. Her brow furrows. “Karyn’s going to try and destroy your artwork and Finn’s going to hold you back so you can’t stop her.”

  Matt inhales sharply.

  “It will feel like it’s the end of the world. You will want to just walk away from everything. You’ll feel trapped and dark and wish you’d never been born.”

  “I already do,” she says in a tiny voice. Her shoulders shake and I am broken for her. I wipe my own tears back with a hurried hand and keep my voice strong. For her.