When my thoughts come back, I’m sitting in the bath, undies wet, the bloody trackies beneath me, the empty Betadine bottle still gripped in my fingers and my leg stained orangey red. My shin throbs in a sharp beat. With shaking fingers I grab a hand towel and mop the wetness off my leg, making sure not to get too close to the wound. It’s clean now. It winces back at me, edges gaping. I’ve watched enough Operation Ouch! to realize it probably needs stitches. I consider doing it myself—for about three seconds. Then I heave my bruised self out of the bath and pull the first aid kit out from under the sink.

I find what I’m looking for: butterfly strips. I used them on you that time. That was in the bath too. You said I did a good job. The scar faded to something so thin and silvery you could only see it peeking out from under your watch if you knew it was there. A good job. Just not good enough. I pull the strips out of the box and the sterile wrapping and stick the edges of my leg back together. I use five, so it’s completely covered. It hurts less when I can’t see it. It’s more a deep ache now. It’s done. I sit back. It looks okay. Better than okay, it looks unremarkable.

I stare at the mess around me. At least most of the carnage has been contained to the bath. I fill it up and leave the trackies to soak. I use the hand towel to mop the drips off the floor, the hall, the wall, then I dump that in the bath too. Cleaning done, I let Splints in, feed him, then collapse on the couch. My back aches. My everything aches, my eyes are scratchy. I let them close.

DAY 39

WEDNESDAY

I SLEEP THROUGH the alarm, through Splinter licking my face, through the start of school. Through the cutoff for the online absentee form. I know it’s late when I wake. The room is midmorning light.

Your phone rings. The sound jolts through me, kicking my heart, making it thump into my ribs.

It’s still on the charger where I left it. Blinking away. Waiting patiently.

My stomach twists and my tongue swells too thick and pushes clumsily against my bony, too-large teeth. My mouth’s shrunk, all teeth and tongue. I stumble into the bathroom just as my throat opens and spray acidy vomit at the toilet.

I want my mum.

The phone stops. The vomiting stops. I rest my head on the seat. The plastic’s cool against my cheek. My breathing slows. My hands stop shaking.

The house is quiet. I can feel every room, empty. A hollow shell house. Then there’s the click of Splints’s claws on the tiles and his nose huffing wetly in my ear.