Damaged by Amy Reed Read Free Book Online Page B

addiction. It’s a sign of mental illness.”
    Over the years, I’ve developed a thick skin to protect me from her judgments. Usually they just roll right off me; at worst, they’re a mild irritation. But right now, I’m raw and jagged and unprepared, like my protective walls have crumbled. Maybe it’s lack of sleep. Maybe it’s the long run with no food or water. Maybe I’m losing my mind.
    Instead of ignoring her and walking away like I always do, I want to fight. Anger mixes with adrenaline from the run and fills me with a dark electricity. I slam my glass down on the table. “Seriously, Mom? You ran out of things to judge me about, so you picked practically the healthiest things a person can do for their body? Are you really that desperate to bring me down to your level?”
    A wicked grin spreads across her face, like she’s thrilled I’m finally playing her game. “My level?” she says. “I’m an artist living on my own terms in a society that breeds nothing but sheep.”
    â€œYou live in a shack, Mom. You don’t even have a job.”
    â€œSomehow I raised a sheep.”
    â€œYou’re being a bitch.”
    â€œBaa, baaaa .”
    â€œVery funny.”
    â€œYou’re running on a treadmill.”
    â€œI run to feel free.”
    â€œA sheep and a hamster.”
    â€œMom, stop.”
    â€œWhat are you running from, Kinsey?”
    â€œShut up.”
    â€œWhat are you running from?”
    â€œShut up!” I pick the glass up and throw it on the ground. I want a crash, I want shards of glass flying, I want her to bleed. But it doesn’t break, just lands with a sad thud and rolls around in its puddle.
    â€œPathetic,” Mom says. She starts laughing, cackling like a cartoon witch. I grab the cereal bowl and take it to my room. My head pounds with anger and dehydration. My eyes sting with what could be the beginning of tears. It’s been so long since I cried, I don’t remember what it feels like. I get to my room, slam my door, and sit on my bed. Close my eyes. Take deep breaths. Force the pain back in. Force my eyes to dry. She won’t get any tears from me today. No one will. Ever.
    * * *
    By the time I get to school, I feel almost normal, except for a headache and a slight cramp in my left quad. Today’s Friday. Only Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of next week left, which are unofficially optional for seniors, then high school is over for the rest of my life. I hand in my final English paper, which I finished days ago. And that’s it. No more papers. No more tests. Everyone else is giddy, swept up in the ritual of graduation like every year before them. Sheep, my mom would say. But I wish I felt as they did, wish I could find the motivation to smile and hug and sign yearbooks. But I feel strangely empty and lost, like something has been taken from me, like I’m mourning the loss of homework assignments and studying, like all of a sudden I have nothing left in the world.
    I have one class left, but I leave school early. I’ve never cut class in my life. But I’m not the only one today; cars full of seniors pour out of the parking lot, on their way to the beach, on their way to get ready for parties I will not go to. For a moment, I panic. I don’t have a shift at work tonight. Bill said three in a row was no good, especially since I’m working all day Saturday and Sunday. He insisted I have Friday off, so I could “have fun with my friends.” Little does he know.
    I use the pay phone at the gas station across the street to call Grandma. She answers in her usual exasperated tone. I tell her I’m coming over to use the computer. She lectures me about my manners but ultimately agrees when I lie and say I need to do research for a final paper that counts for half my grade. “Fine,” she sighs. “At least you’re doing something with your life.” She may