Page 27

Jessica

I am lost at everything he told me.

The evidence is clear. The cuts are on my wrists. I believe him when he says I told him I killed my mom. If there was anything that would have led me to a suicide attempt and committing myself to a mental institution, killing her would have triggered that.

But I don’t have the capacity to do that. I wouldn’t have. I loved my mom. Like, more than any other daughter on the planet. I would never have hurt her.

Though, if I did ... I look down at the bandages again. Yeah. Slitting my wrists and driving to a mental institution ... it tracks.

My memories of the last twenty-four hours before coming here are spotty, but the ones that I do have don’t show any triggers or foreshadowing of a murderous rampage on my part.

I need to get off this medicine. Whatever they’re giving me is making it impossible to cut through the fog, though maybe that’s the purpose.

The doc gave me another IV before he left—said it was for nutrients and fluids, and I’m already beginning to nod off, my alarm at his information mellowing into an almost casual acceptance of the fact.

I killed my mother—that’s what he said. I killed my mother and tried to kill myself.

I lie back down on the bed and curl onto one side, looking at the white wall. Sometimes my mom gets in bed with me. She curls up behind me and traces her finger along the muscles in my back and tells me how, when I was a baby, I would fall asleep with my hand grasping her finger.

She always falls asleep before me and snores like a broken chain saw, with lots of sputters and starts.

It doesn’t make sense. I love my mom.