Page 106 of The Glass Girl

She’s scrubbing the underside of her forearm with a toothbrush. Scrubbing it raw.

“Holly, stop.” I try to grab the toothbrush, but she angles away.

Scrubbing, scrubbing, pinpricks of blood starting to appear. She always dresses and undresses and showers before or after us, in here, alone. Never with us. With her sleeve pushed up, I can see them.

Pinkish scars along the soft flesh of her arms. Some old, some that look almost new.

“Holly, no.” I get on my knees. “Give it to me. Please. Let’s talk. Don’t.”

She shakes her head. “Get out. No one was there. I called. I thought they’d be there. I know they were mad. Disappointed in me. But I thought—”

“The fuck are you two doing?”

Holly’s eyes dart over my shoulder. I look back. It’s Gideon.

Help,I mouth at her.

“Jesus H. Christ on a crutch,” Gideon mutters. She reaches down and in one quick move rips the toothbrush from Holly’s hand and throws it to the side. But Holly’s fingers pick up the slack; she digs into her arms with her fingernails. I grab them, hold them tightly in my hands. I don’t know what to do.

“I can’t…There’s so much inside me. I need relief. I was going to steal a fork from the dining hall, but they count those.” Holly’s eyes are filmy. Her teeth are chattering.

“Get someone,” I say to Gideon. “We should get someone.”

“No,” she says. “No snitching. Remember? They’ll send her to Seg.” She narrows her eyes at Holly. “Or do you want to go to Seg?”

Holly shakes her head violently. “I can’t be alone. I don’t like to be alone. I can’t…do that. I just…Let me do this. It’ll go away. Then I’ll feel better.”

Gideon pushes me out of the way and hauls Holly up by her armpits, props her against the wall of the shower.

“We have to calm her down,” she tells me.

“I’m going to help you,” she tells Holly. “Just trust me.”

“Go,” she says to me. “Run and get her some clothes, a towel. And don’t tell anyone what’s happening.”

Even though I’m afraid of what Gideon means by “helping” Holly, I do what she says, walking as quickly as I can out of the bathroom and to our room. I tear through Holly’s stuff in her dresser, grab clothes and a towel, and speed-walk back, my heart racing.

Gideon has turned the shower on full blast. Sprays of ice-cold water hit my face.

But Holly is unfazed by the temperature. In fact, she looks calmer. Comforted, even as she’s being soaked to the bone.

“Better,” she says.

“Good,” Gideon answers.

“I can’t live inside myself,” Holly whispers.

“I know,” Gideon says.

“Things have happened to me. When I was little. They said it was my fault.”

“I get it,” Gideon says. “Someone mess with you?”

Holly nods.

I feel a little sick.

Holly’s eyes swivel to me. “Those dogs. At my house. They aren’t mine. It’s not my fault, how the dogs are. He has stuff he needs to hide. People after him.”

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