Cut by Patricia McCormick Read Free Book Online Page A

money …going to give your father a heart attack …don’t understand why …—until finally the phone goes dead and all that’s left is a faint clicking in the wires.
    The floor isn’t where it’s supposed to be when I step out of the phone booth; it’s like when you step off a curb without knowing it and put your foot down into thin air. I grab the door frame, then force myself to walk back to my room. But the hall shimmers like a paved road on a hot summer day. Slick green squares of linoleum heave up in my path, then sink away underfoot. There’s an incline, a linoleum hill, a surprisingly tiring hill that gives way, without warning, to a valley, a long, low trench in the hallway between the phone booth and my room.
    The lights are out and Sydney’s already in bed when I finally get there. I climb straight into bed and pull the blanket up to my chin even though I’m sweating from the walk back from the phone booth. My shirt and pants bunch up under the covers. I wrestle my shirt back into place, give up on the pants. I listen for Sydney’s breathing. It’s no good. I roll over; my shirt gets twisted around my chest. I turn back the other way and yank it straight.
    I roll one way, the room rolls the other. I picture my bed, the bed that Sick Minds wants to give to someone else, falling through a giant trapdoor.
    Then I hear Ruby’s footsteps coming toward our door. The rolling stops, the furniture snaps back into place. Then she moves on.
    Before the floor can start pitching again, I throw off the covers and crouch down next to the bed. I lift the mattress with one hand, grope around with the other. The mattress is surprisingly heavy. My arm shakes, bows under the weight of it. Then I feel it. Way down near the foot of the bed is the pie plate. I stretch, grab it, and let the mattress come down with a plop.
    “Huh?” Sydney sits up in bed, her eyes half-open.
    I freeze.
    Sydney falls back onto her pillow, sighs, and settles into her steady breathing.
    I get back into bed, moving calmly and efficiently now, lie on my stomach, and pull the covers over my head. Inside the dark blanket tent, I fold the pie plate in half, press it flat, bend it back and forth, back and forth, like I’m following a recipe, back and forth, until the fold is crisp. When I rip it, it gives way easily and I have two neat halves, each with a jagged edge.
    I lay my index finger lightly on the edge of one half testing it. It’s rough and right.
    I bring the inside of my wrist up to meet it. A tingle crawls across my scalp. I close my eyes and wait.
    But nothing happens. There’s no release. Just a weird tugging sensation. I open my eyes. The skin on my wrist is drawn up in a wrinkle, snagged on the edge. I pull it in the other direction and a dull throbbing starts in my wrist.
    I hold my breath and push down on the piece of metal. It sinks in neatly.
    A sudden liquid heat floods my body. The pain is so sharp, so sudden, I catch my breath. There’s no rush, no relief. Just pain, a keen, pulsing pain. I drop the pie plate and grasp my wrist with my other hand, dimly aware even as I’m doing it that this is something I’ve never done before. Never tried to stop the blood. Never interfered. It’s never hurt like this before. And it’s never not worked.
    I take my hand away a minute and wipe my wrist on my shirt; the blood pauses, then leaks out again. I go back to gripping my wrist and trying to ignore the throbbing and the pinpricks of sweat on my lip and forehead, then I look down and see blood seeping out between my fingers.
    A sizzle of electricity white-hot energy, courses through me. And suddenly I’m up, out of bed, walking out of the room. There’s no thinking now, only walking. Down the hall, around the corner to Ruby’s desk. Holding my arm out, like an offering.
    “Oh, child,” Ruby says when she sees me. “Oh, honey child.”
    She goes into action, reaching up to the First Aid cupboard and taking my hand in hers, all