Short Fiction Excerpt

Muscle Memory

Her laugh hasn’t changed — the lilt of it, the way she exhales each syllable — but everything else is different now. Only no one else seems to notice.

I try not to look at her, keep my gaze on my hands. There is a thin series of semi-fresh scratches on my wrist extending towards my thumb, already beginning to scab. I work my nail beneath the edge of one. It is not satisfying. It has barely begun to heal and offers no joy as blood beads behind the small fragments I am able to remove, piece by piece. She laughs again, louder than before. I start on the next scab.

“That’s fucking gross.”

I am lost in my task, don’t notice that this is directed at me.

“Are you seriously self harming in class? In front of people? That’s actually so inconsiderate. You could trigger someone.”

I look up from my mutilation to see her staring at me, to see all four of them staring at me. I’m sure the others are staring too, but they’ve never mattered in quite the same way.

“I’m not.”

My teeth feel fuzzy, like I’ve had too much sugar in my tea.

“God, it’s not self harm if it’s just scratching somewhere that itches, don’t be so dramatic.”

This is the first time she has ever defended me. This change, they do notice. I can tell by the way they try to stem their confusion.

“I’m just saying-“

“Do you want a plaster?”

She’s speaking to me. She shouldn’t be, but she is. She pulls her bag into her lap and starts rummaging around in its insides, smiling when she finds what she’s looking for.

“I knew I still had some. Here.”

The envelope of plasters is too lightweight to throw, we’re too far from each other. She extends her hand in my direction.

I have been in this kind of trap before. I will stand, walk across the room and she will pull out of my reach. We are all too old to justify this kind of behaviour now, but it will be tolerated because it’s her. The potential for humiliation pales in comparison to my desire to stay as far away from her as possible. I don’t move.

“Seriously? Fine.”

Looks are exchanged behind her back as her chair scrapes and she steps between the desks to reach me.

“Keep them, I’ve got more at home.”

She could drop the flimsy sheet on my desk in front of me, but she holds it out instead. A part of me knows that she would not pull it out of reach while standing in front of me like this, after making such a display of graciousness.

“Thanks.”

My voice is hoarse, it breaks mid word, turning the gratitude into two syllables. When my fingers graze hers, I find them warm.

---

It had not been intentional. There were no thoughts other than to get her as far from me as I could, as quickly as I could. I had not intended to hurt her, I just needed it to stop. Needed *her* to stop. And then she had. Not right away. She twitched for a while, eyelids fluttering, one slightly more open than the other. I stayed until she became completely still. Not because I wanted to watch, I didn’t want to watch, but stillness found us both.

I didn’t notice the scratches until I got home.

---

A week has passed and I have been watching her. With the exception of her moment of unprecedented kindness, there is nothing to suggest to the others that something is wrong. She gives correct answers in classes, she eats lunch with her boyfriend and their friends. I can’t stomach food, vomit most mornings in the shower and on the way to school. I wait for a look, a nod, something to confirm that it was not a false memory. Nothing comes. The plaster on my hand is peeling at the edges.

The snide comments have ceased. Without her approval, the others do not talk about my hair or my skin, they no longer ask me questions that bring the metallic tang of rage to my mouth. Without the attention, I am more isolated than ever.

Until she asks me, “How’s your hand?”

I search her eyes for hidden meaning and find nothing other than calm curiosity.

“Better.”

“I used to have eczema. Itched like crazy.”

She gestures to the ditch of her elbow, visible beneath the rolled sleeve of her blouse. The skin there is smooth, unblemished. I wonder if she’s lying.

As if she can smell my skepticism, she leans closer to me, conspiratorial.

“Bio Oil. I used it every day, twice a day after the steroid cream cleared the worst of it. Never came back. I still use it after every shower. It’s better than moisturiser.”

I am unsure how to respond to this. I don’t use moisturiser. There was blood leaking from her ear and she wasn’t moving. I opt for a cautious nod.

“I’ll try to remember that if I ever get eczema.”

She laughs. I don’t quite understand why, what I said wasn’t funny. I smile, confused.

“Listen, I hope you don’t think I’m being a nosy bitch here, but I noticed you haven’t been eating anything at lunch. If you’re having like, food aversion issues or whatever, sometimes it’s easier when there’s conversation happening around you. It takes the pressure off actually having to eat, you know?”

I don’t know. At home we eat while we watch TV. Or at least we used to, I’ve been taking my plate up to my bedroom for the past week and hiding the food in my bin. There have been complaints of a sweet, rank odour emanating from room. I haven’t noticed it.

“What I mean is, if it’d help, you can hang out with us at lunchtimes.”

When I was five I thought I saw my grandmother sitting on the end of my bed in the middle of the night. I was so sure that she’d been there, could have sworn that I felt the warmth of her through the sheets, the weight of her against my leg. My grandmother had never come back to our house after my parents divorced, two years after I was born.

Words like *hallucination*, *psychosis*, and *sectioning* did not seem relevant to the apparition of my grandmother. The event was dismissed as the invention of a tired mind, of a child’s desire for comfort in the dark.

She is silent, expectant, waiting for confirmation or refusal. There is no evidence of harm on her. No bloating of her face, no scent of decay, no blood. My skin crawls beneath the plaster. Perhaps I’m just not looking closely enough.

“Are you sure your friends would be alright with that?”

A gesture of dismissal. Their opinions are secondary: they will follow her lead regardless of direction. It is not arrogance on her part, simply fact.

“Sure.”

---

It does not help me eat. I pick at the crusts of my sandwich while they talk around me. The topics are foreign to me, for the most part. I am a ghost at their table, observing from close proximity. She addresses me at least once each day. Each day I find a way to avoid contributing more than a few banal responses. The others seem confused by my presence at first, but they offer no complaint that I am witness to.

When the plaster comes off in the shower, there are no marks beneath it, no evidence of any trauma. I begin to keep track of my days, writing an hourly recount of my existence, in fear that I will once again lose time and begin to fabricate reality.

On the third week, her friends attempt to include me in their conversations. Her boyfriend tells me he likes my jacket. My sandwiches have bites taken out of their edges. She smiles at me regularly, now.

I am alarmed to find that I smile back.

The past is never discussed. We do not acknowledge that at one point, I was the source of their amusement: how it was my rucksack that they defaced with tip-ex, my name that they attached to an instagram account and posted pictures of burn victims as selfies. I begin to wonder if these things, too, were a fabrication. I threw away the bag, the profile was taken down. There is no way to know. I focus on the current inclusion.

My grades start to improve. I am gaining weight. I am told that I would suit a fringe. I compliment her perfume one afternoon and she tells me to put out my wrist.

A moment of my old fear resurfaces and she rolls her eyes at my hesitation.

“Come here.”

She takes my hand, turning it to give her access to the button on my cuff. Her fingers are deft, the button undone quickly. The fabric of my shirt parts to reveal a slice of skin and almost visible veins. She holds me still as she rolls the head of the tester against the inside of my wrist.

“There.”

There is an absence of warmth where her hand was on mine. I lift my wrist to my nose, inhaling. She seems satisfied and I am glad to have pleased her.

---

It begins with his supposed infidelity. He is no longer welcome at our table. We collectively glare at him as he passes us in the cafeteria.

“He’s such a fucking snake, look at him! He has *no* shame.”

“Don’t give him the satisfaction, just ignore him.”

It’s my advice that she takes. She doesn’t look at him, she looks at me instead.

“You’re so lucky you don’t have to deal with stuff like this.”

I suppose that she’s right. My lack of experience does seem preferable to her red rimmed eyes and smudged mascara.

“I just can’t believe he would send dick pics to a fourth year.”

There is an uncomfortable beat. Her head whips around and she stares at the speaker. We all do. Her word is absolute and to question it, even for the sake of rhetoric, is not allowed.

“I mean, I believe *you*.”

We continue to stare.

“I just can’t *believe* it, you know? That’s disgusting, it’s like child abuse.”

The tension of the moment passes and we collectively relax.

“I know. I just want to forget about him. Let’s do something tonight.”

I have not spent time with her outside of school with the exception of that one night. That night which I’m now sure is a sign that I will succumb to madness and hysteria in my old age. I wonder what I should wear for the first time she sees me in anything other than a uniform.

“Why don’t we go out for dinner or something?”

We ignore the one who spoke before as a gentle reminder that while she is forgiven, we have not forgotten her misstep.

“Everyone come over to mine tonight, we’ll have an old fashioned sleepover. Order pizza, watch something spooky, break into my dad’s whisky cabinet.”

I am one of her inner circle, now. Welcome in her home, where she sleeps. The logistics of it slow my thrumming pulse. It’s a school night. My mum won’t let me stay out all night, especially if she doesn’t know her parents. I’ll have to sneak out. I don’t have pyjamas. Do people actually wear pyjamas to sleepovers? I’m not sure.

“I’ll text my dad and let him know. You guys should be okay to come over after eight.”

We nod as one, chatter about which films we should watch while she pulls her phone from her bra.

---

In the end, it wasn’t hard to pack a bag and slide out the back door unnoticed. Her address is on the other side of the river, where the houses are all detached and there’s space for two cars in every driveway. I take my bike, a bottle of stolen vodka wrapped in an old band shirt and basketball shorts weighing down my backpack as I cycle in the dark.

To my dismay, I am the first to arrive. It’s her dad that opens the door to me, a man with well manicured hands and a beard that’s greying near the corners of his jaw.

“Oh. You’re early.”

It sounds more like an accusation than anything. He does not smile at me. Adults don’t often smile when they speak to me, though I’m never quite sure why. Perhaps it’s because I don’t smile at them first.

I notice that he hasn’t invited me in, his large frame almost silhouetted by the light from within. I have no response to this, so remain silent.

“Dad? Is that you heading out?”

Her voice carries from upstairs and I get a glimpse of their hallway as he leans back to respond to her.

“One of your friends is at the door.”

“Let her in, then!”

He still has not stood aside. He appears to be examining my features, as though perhaps he recognises me. I am becoming uncomfortable. My hands grip the straps of my backpack for support. It is cold outside, my sweat turning to a chill sheen on my skin under my clothes. I worry he knows that there is alcohol in my bag, that he has sensed my guilt from our minor interaction.

Then the moment passes and he gestures for me to come inside. He points to the staircase at the centre of the hallway.

“Second door on your right.”

“Would you like me to take off my shoes?”

“It’s up to you.”

I wonder whether there is a correct choice. Their hallway carpet is light grey, with a deep pile. There is very little dirt on my trainers from the cycle over, so I decide to keep them on. I can tell by his frown that I have chosen incorrectly, but he says nothing.

She is standing in a doorway when I reach the top of the stairs.