Page 75 of The Black Table
It’s not that, though, I think.It’s—what even is it? How do I explain this whole thing?
Morgan waits in silence, as if patiently expecting more from me, but there’s nothing more to give. Just an ache in my chest and the crushing sense of doom. And resignation.
“Is it true?” Morgan asks, her voice lower.
A few feet away, the espresso machine squeals and hisses. I dig my fingernails into my palm.
“You want to know if I did it?”
“Not in so many words,” she replies. “But…I’ll admit I’m curious.”
I swallow, nod. “It wasn’t on purpose,” I say. “It was…I was going through something. I wasn’t…right. But it’s not like I was out there with a can of gasoline and…”
Morgan holds up a hand. “I believe you.” She stares into my eyes. “And I believe you didn’t know Elena’s dad had anything to do with it.”
Unbidden, tears flood my eyes. I scrub at my lash linefuriously, hating how weak I’m acting. “Of course I didn’t. My parents—they just wanted it all to go away. Didn’t want to have a crazy daughter.”Sorry about that, I think bitterly.Wish not granted. “They said I could come here, but?—”
I hesitate. Should I tell her the whole truth?
Morgan nods, tips her head at the mug. “Another sip,” she says, “for your throat.”
Meekly, I obey, like a little kitten accepting some milk. And after another sip, I do feel calmer.
“They said I could come here,” I start again, “but if I couldn’t hold it together, then…then…”
The last word wobbles.
“They’d send you away,” Morgan finishes. “Somewhere where you’d have a roommate even crazier than me.”
I smile, even as another tear finds its way out of the corner of my eye.
“I don’t want to go,” I say, almost choking on the words.
“Hey, hey.” Morgan covers my hand with hers. “It’s all going to be okay, okay?”
I nod, not believing her, and too late realize that her eyes have followed her hands.
To my arms. The burns.
Because I’m still wearing a T-shirt.
I breathe out, hard.
“So that’s…” Morgan says. She doesn’t have to finish the sentence.
“Yes. It was bad,” I say, not meeting her eyes. “Skin grafts.”
It feels strangely good to show her the scars—well, the burn marks, anyway. The other part, the scar on my chest?—
I don’t think I ever want anyone to see. Ever, ever, ever.
“Do they hurt?” Morgan asks, interrupting my thoughts.
“No.”
“You know, there are treatments that?—”
“I’ve tried everything.” I cut her off.
