Knife's Edge

CHAPTER TWENTY

I try to ignore the rancid taste in my mouth as I clench the grubby sock between my teeth, the material sticking to the roof of my mouth and making me want to gag. I force myself not to gag because movement – any movement – hurts.

The pain in my shoulder has taken over the pain of my empty tummy now, scorching me like an invisible fire that I can't put out. It makes me feel sick – and fuzzy in the head.

Mummy.

I want my mummy. I don't even care if she forgets to give me food this time. I just want her with me, not asleep upstairs. I want to see her familiar brown scraggly hair, even though it reminds me of rat tails like the one I once saw running around the kitchen floor that one time. I want to see those dark blue eyes I've known since the day I was born, even if they don't really see me. I want her to sit down next to me and stare blankly at the wall – in that same way she always does – and mumble some words that I can't understand.

But I've already learnt the hard way that 'I want' never gets.

"Flin-gers," I cry, the disjointed word muffled around the sock.

I'm not so great with words; I can understand far more than I can actually speak.

What I mean to say is that I can't feel my fingers. I'm not sure if it's because they've gone numb, or if the pain in my shoulder hurts so much that it just overpowers every other feeling. I definitely can't move them, though – a problem I've never had before – so I know this, whatever it is, has to be bad.

Diss-low-kayshion: that's what he'd called it. I don't know what that really means, but he had sounded annoyed as he'd told me what I'd done, and that I'd have to learn to fix my own mistakes.

So, I have to fix this.

Charlotte knows it, too. She knows something is really wrong.

"Sunshine," she speaks softly, using the same word her mother often calls her. Silent tears stream down her face as she cuddles next to Bailey on the far side of the room, the pair of them curled up on one of the ratty old mattresses on the floor. Bailey squeezes Mr. Bunny in her arms, crushing him against her as if he can shield her from everything and anything bad.

Poor Mr. Bunny has his work cut out for him.

Taking a few snotty breaths, I carefully wrap the black leather belt around my upper arm, feeding it through the buckle to secure it in place.

He'd thrown the belt at me and told me it might help with something called lev-are-age, before going back upstairs and leaving the three of us alone. He'd told me my shoulder was disslowkayted and that I'd need to pull it back into place, if I didn't want to look like Eye-gore for the rest of my life.

I don't know who Eye-gore is, or why his gory eyes are relevant – it's my shoulder that hurts.

I tug on the belt with my hand, trying to pull it up. I scream and let go.

I thought the pain couldn't get any worse; I'd been wrong.

Bailey screams, too. Her screech bounces off the brick walls around us with piercing clarity. Charlotte clamps a hand over Bailey's mouth to keep her quiet.

He had been angry when he was here before; we don't want him coming back down to see us.

He doesn't like it when we make noise.

"Shh," Charlotte tries to soothe, her voice shaking. "It's okay."

She's lying.

Charlotte lies to Bailey a lot.