Page 34 of Guitars and Cages

“You’re right, I ain’t,” Morgan told me; then he found the lamp on the bedside table and snapped it on. I recoiled with a hiss, pulling the blanket up over my eyes. Morgan pulled it back down and studied me.

“You’re pale as death; did you take something?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I swear, I didn’t take anything.”

“Then when was the last time you ate?”

“Don’t know; Monday, maybe, or was it Sunday?”

“Jesus fuck, Asher! You’re gonna eat something if I gotta shove it down your throat. What the hell were you thinking starving yourself for two days?”

“Who cares?”

Morgan sighed, hand curving into a fist to keep from shaking the hell outta me. I listened as he left the room and went to the kitchen to see what was there. I knew he’d find it surprisingly well stocked; I’d worked hard at keeping it that way since Rory had arrived. He came back swearing, with tomato soup and a grilled-cheese sandwich, stomping the entire way. I’d have fallen back to sleep if not for the noise.

“Sit up so you can eat.”

“No.”

“Now!”

“Dammit, Morgan. I said no!”

Morgan huffed in annoyance and yanked me into a sitting position, pushing me back against the headboard. I glared, but said nothing as Morgan went to hand me the bowl of soup only to notice the angry line of red cuts up my arm.

“The fuck is that?”

“The fuck’s it look like?”

Morgan put the soup back on the stand and yanked the arm closer. Most of the cuts were shallow; one or two probably should have been stitched. The really bad one from last night was still bleeding a little. They ran from wrist to elbow and a bit beyond, some new, some older, with varying layers of scarring in between. He frowned, and I wondered if he even realized how long it had been since I’d worn a short-sleeved T-shirt.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Off and on?”

“For?”

“Better part of a year.”

“You looking to die?”

“No, just feel,” I told him, yanking my arm away. “Can I have the soup?”

Morgan gave it to me and stood, arms crossed over his chest, as he watched me eat it.

“You can stop staring, Morgan, it’s all gone.”

“This, too,” Morgan told me, removing the bowl and thrusting the sandwich into my hands while I griped about Morgan treating me like some pathetic kid who couldn’t take care of himself.

“Then stop acting like one,” he told me as I ate. “Those cuts look infected.”

“So?”

“So when you’re done I’m cleaning them up and bandaging them for you, and then we are going to have a long talk about why they’re there.”

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