Fallout (Crank 3)

can go a number of ways,

I realize. Darla has pulled

Erica off to one side of the room.

Surely Darla notices the state of her high

or the stench of meth sweat.

Ashante stands in the doorway,

holding my blanket and sucking her thumb.

“Tell them,” I plead. “Tell them what

she did to you.” Her eyes look like

they’ll pop right out of her face.

Suddenly I notice crimson

drip-dripping onto my shirt. I try

to reach up, find the source,

but Phil still has a death grip

on my arms. “Am I bleeding?”

His squeeze relaxes some.

Let me see. He spins me around,

draws in his breath. Uh, yeah.

You’d better clean that up. He lets

go of me. Come right back, okay?

THAT BAD, HUH?

I go to the bathroom,

flip on the light switch.

Aagh! No wonder

Ashante looked so

scared. This is ugly.

Striping the right side

of my face from eyebrow

to cheek is a long, narrow

gash. Not a scratch.