Page 258 of Mad Girl

When I left you at the jail on Tuesday, I let the dark flame of my dad’s surprise engagement completely consume me.

I couldn’t have done it without Carola.

She’s the biggest, most terrifying bitch in this place. She’s the type of person you do not mess with if you want to stay vertical and conscious—which is why I rammed my shoulder into Carola’s arm as I stalked past her at rec time.

But she just sneered at me, going right back to holding court with her posse of friends.

You see, the problem with everyone knowing I enjoy a good beating in here is that the girls have lost their desire to give me one. It isn’t all that fun for them if I want it—if I keep asking for more.

So I utilized the best weapon I have at my disposal: my mouth. I said a few things to Carola—of the body-shaming variety—that one girl should definitely never say to another, and that’s the moment I had her. She twisted around to face me, and the look she gave me—right before she gave me what I wanted—was a death glare so deadly that it rivaled one of mine. She grabbed me by the shoulders and rammed her giant forehead into my face.

I knew, as I dropped to the ground, she’d broken my nose.

Now, I don’t know if anyone’s ever broken your nose, Casey—I doubt it, since your nose is ridiculously perfect—but it takes you a while to come back to your body after a blow like that.

The blow slung me from that faded green basketball court to some red-black void. The ether. A place without sound or people or thoughts. Just static.

Then I gasped for air, and it all rushed back: the girls, their hushed voices, the fuzzy stars dotting my vision, the pain.

Hot, bitter, ruthless pain. Like a thousand needles being shot into the front of my skull all at once.

And yet it still hadn’t been enough to quell the force of my rage.

I slowly lifted up, blood gushing from my nose like a faucet left to run, laughing as I licked the blood from my top lip. And those bitches, Casey, they gaped at me. They found that disturbing as hell. And Carola? She didn’t like that I liked it. That I could laugh it off. That I could still get up.

Which I tried to do.

I think.

The last thing I saw was her tree-trunk of an arm coming at my face before everything went pitch black.

As I slipped back into consciousness, beeping sounds alerted me to my new location—as did the blue gown and the scratchy white blanket draped over my legs. The hospital would’ve felt like a reprieve but for the throbbing in my head and the screaming pain pulsing across the center of my face. I couldn’t breathe through my nose.

I whimpered, lifting my right hand to assess the damage—but quickly discovered I couldn’t. Cold metal dug into my wrist.

They’d handcuffed me to the bed.

A soft voice came from my left. “Hello, Elliot,” said a middle-aged woman with a kind face. “I’m Sara—your nurse. You’re at the hospital. You’ve suffered a mild head injury, as well as a broken nose, so you’ve been brought in for observation. An ENT has already assessed your injuries and will return shortly to speak with you.” She administered more pain medication into my IV, said that it might make me sleepy. As I slipped gently back into oblivion, her voice sounded far away.

Then—another voice.

Deep and familiar.

Thick with emotion.

That voice settled over me like a fire when you’re cold. Like water when you’re parched. Like a burden finally lifted when you just can’t take the weight anymore.

My dad’s voice.

“I miss you,” he said, and I could’ve sworn I felt him there. Could’ve sworn his hands were clasping my hand. Could’ve sworn his presence flowed through me, righting every dark and scary and hopeless thing. Like it did when I was little. “I miss you so much, honey. I miss seeing your beautiful face first thing in the morning. I miss your smile and the sound of your voice. I miss how happy being in the same room with you makes me, and if I could go back, I would do it all differently. I would be so much better. I didn’t acknowledge your feelings. I didn’t answer your questions. I protected you from everything else, but I failed to protect you from me—from my problems. I should’ve answered your questions, even if the answers hurt us both. I should’ve made it clear that you were always good enough. The problem was never you. It was me. I’m the broken one. I’m sorry I never told you that. I love you, Elliot. I love you so much.”

Sometime later, as I blinked awake, the blurred shape of a head came into view. Dark hair. Someone bent over my hand, the backs of my fingers pressed to a stubbly cheek. “Dad?”

But his face didn’t snap up to meet mine.

Yours did.

“No,” you said, wincing as you looked at my face. “Just me.”