Page 49 of Impossible

“Don’t you worry about him even a little bit, little bird. You worry about you. About getting better.”

I don’t mean the words to carry the weight they do, but we both feel it as they settle in the air around us. The silence that follows is heavy and still.

“I know I’m skinny enough,” Indie finally whispers.

I want to shush her, to tell her we don’t have to talk about it, but she’s already going on.

“I know I’ve made it. I don’t need to be skinnier. But the thought of gaining weight terrifies me. And I still feel stupidly happy when the number on the scale goes down, even though I know I shouldn’t. I know I’m sick, I really do, and I don’t want to die, but if getting better means gaining weight, I’m not sure I want that either. Especially not if it means having my heat.”

Fuck.I scramble. Was not expectingthat.“You’re ok with feeling sick all the time?” I ask.

She fidgets with her hands, her long fingers flexing and coming to rest on the swollen mass of her knee. “Feeling sick is good for my ED brain. I know when I’m sick, when I feel crappy, that I won’t eat. And that’s good, even if I have to feel bad to get there. It’s wrong, I know.”

“Not wrong,” I say gently. “Not wrong at all. You’re doing your best.”

She laughs. “I don’t think so.”

“Indie,” I sigh. “You’re sitting here worrying about Risk, a total stranger who just, for lack of a better word, assaulted you.”

“But—“

“But nothing. I didn’t tell you about his history to excuse his actions, just to help you understand him. And it didn’t even cross your mind not to forgive him. Instantly, you had compassion for him in a way I have yet to see you demonstrate for yourself.”

She bites her lip and I fight the urge to reach out and brush it with my thumb, to make her stop hurting herself.

She doesn’t say anything for a while. I can practically see the gears turning in her head as she thinks about what I said. I feel shitty, like I scolded her, but now that the words are out I realize how true they are. They always talk about how self-conscious teenagers are, how hyper-judgmental, but they rarely talk about how simultaneously competent and able they are. It’s a dangerous combination. Potentially lethal. Irrational enough to hate her body, but capable enough to destroy it. What made her hate herself so much?

A few minutes later, Alicia comes back. She flutters about, cleaning Indie’s superficial scrapes and insisting on cleaning my lip, which I didn’t even realize was split.

Then Dr. Gray arrives. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me, and after examining Indie’s knee he agrees that the hospital is necessary.

The final miracle of the night is the spray bottle he pulls from a cabinet in the corner of the room—medical-grade de-scenter.

Half of me wants to punch him for snuffing out Indie’s perfume, the other half wants to hug him for saving me from myself.

He explains to Indie how the spray works and she blushes ferociously, one final little puff of citrus-sweet black tea before she’s dousing herself with the astringent nothingness of the de-scenter.

It’s good though—we’ll be leaving the Complex, and I want my wits about me. Even with Indie de-scented, even with another campus guard, with Dr. Gray and Alicia and the van driver, I don’t feel safe outside the confines of the Complex boundaries. I wish I had a weapon on me, but I’m teacher Leon now, no longer tactical mission leader Leon like I was before.

“Now, I know we had a wheelchair around here somewhere.” Alicia begins walking towards the back of the room, searching between the beds that line the walls.

“I’ll just carry her,” I grunt, shoulders hunched, eyes locked on Indie’s knee.

Dr. Gray eyes her foot—it’s turning a dusky grey color—before nodding his assent. Alicia hurries back and they exchange a grim look.

I sit Indie down next to me in the van and we settle in for the forty-five-minute drive into town. She doesn’t complain about her pain, and within minutes, even as we’re still on the bumpy gravel driveway back to Adams, she’s dead asleep, head resting on my shoulder.

Her scent is muted now, and her little body shivers against me. I’m grateful for the clarity of mind I have, and the chemical arousal of earlier is replaced with a protective fondness. Dr. Gray’s eyes are needle-like on me in the rearview mirror, but I wrap my arm around her anyway and pull her close. Maybe when she has more than 2% bodyfat he can choose this fight, but for now all I care about is my little blue jay getting warm and safe and ok again. If she ever was to begin with.

15

Mad

Hollis

I’mthinkingitmightbe time to hire a personal chef—I really need to get out the door in the mornings, to put in my time at the Coalition and get Midas Pack back on the map. Trying to feed Joshua is turning into a second job, and it’s not one I have time for.

If only he would get out of his fucking bed, we’d be able to talk about it. I used to grab a protein bar and apple before heading to work, but now here I am making oatmeal on the stovetop. Because I know that was his favorite. Before. Or, at least, the way he always made it.

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