He appears as if from a mist, materializing at my bedside. He takes the liberty of sitting down, running circles around my shoulder with his thick fingers. My stomach reacts with tension. I try to pretend I'm asleep, but the circles are getting bigger.

"You're so beautiful when you're sleeping, Sonya," he whispers.

"Then let me sleep," I mumble, motionless.

"So you are awake." His insistent hand rolls me off my side to face him. I put the mask on.

"I thought you said not again."

"Shhh." His hand follows my arm to meet with my hand. The tension in my stomach spreads to my fingertips, my toes, my jaw. His pants are already loose.

"Daddy..."

"Shhh."

It's coming. I'm not allowed to spit, but I can't swallow. It's too much, too thick. I choke and gag and cough and still choke.

I wake up in a coughing fit, my gut twisted and ready to revolt. Sitting up helps me catch my breath; I let my head fall into my hands.

Fuck you.

I reach over to the top of my dresser and pick a Marlboro out of the box. I fumble for the smooth, silvery Zippo, sending it clattering to the floor as I search for it. Figures. I flop over the side of the bed and see it catch the streetlights that manage to sneak between the blinds. Finally, I can light my cigarette. One hand pulls my coarse, brown hair off my shoulders, while the other keeps the cigarette near my mouth.

It's been happening more often. Even the city isn't far enough away. I should know better than to think I can get away so easily. The bastard never goes away.

The neglected ash at the tip of my cigarette falls onto my thigh, hot enough to sting, and crumbles into a vague splotch. I stare at it until it cools, then scatter the crumbs with a quick puff of air.

I need liquid to smooth the scratches out of my throat. Not bothering to pull on a shirt, I step carefully around the laundry scattered in clumps on the floor, grabbing the pack and lighter on the way, into the living room, avoiding hazardous bottles and edges of cheap furniture, and into the kitchen, clawing for the light switch covered by peeling beige wallpaper with brown flowers. The bulb lights with an electric pop.

I lay my hand on the loose handle of the refrigerator, but it stops there. My eyes drift up to the bottles on top of the fridge. Mohawk. Jack Daniels. Wild Turkey. Who will sleep with me tonight? Unable to choose between them, I close my eyes and grab a bottle. Mohawk, it is. I search through the coffee mugs on the counter until I find one that looks clean and fill it two-thirds full with the gasoline. The best thing I can find in the fridge to give it some color is Tang.

I kill the cigarette and swallow the watery-looking yellow-orange elixir as quickly as possible, staring blankly at the kitchen table between gulps. The phone catches my eye; my mug drops noisily to the counter as I reach for the receiver and dial Darren's number.

"'Lo?" he croaks.

"Hey, Dare."

"Jesus, Sonya, it's 4:30. Go to bed."

"Can't sleep." I plop onto a wobbly wood chair.

"So. I can."

"What're you up to tomorrow night?" I ask.

"Look, I thought we went over this," he says. "I can't take being around you. You're too much."

We wait in silence.

"Whatever," I say. "Talk to ya later."

"Later," he says, punctuating it with a noisy fumble to hang up his end. I hang the phone on the hook but keep my hand resting on it. Joel stays up later. I should've called him first. I start to dial his number, stopping on the sixth digit when I realize that I've dialed Rod instead. I redial.

"What?" Joel answers to the ring.

"Hi to you, too," I say.

"Hey, babe. Partyin' tonight?"

"Nah, I'm just hangin' at home."

"Boring," he says.

"No shit," I answer. "Wanna keep me busy tomorrow?"

"Can't say no to an offer like that."

"Come get me after work. We'll go do something." I shift my legs and light another cigarette.

"We don't have to go anywhere to do something, you know," he says. That's why I like Joel. Right to the point.

"Long as I'm not bored." That's as close to teasing as I get.

"Not a problem."

I snicker. "'K, so I'll see ya later, then."

"You got it. See ya tomorrow."

"Bye."

"B... oh, wait. Shit. Sonya?"

"Yeah?"

"I can't tomorrow," he says. "I gotta run Shitface across the state so he can get laid by his girl back home."

"Some roommate," I mumble, curling my knees up to my bare chest.

"Huh?"

"Nothing. No problem. Some other time."

"Yeah, another time."

Silence.

"'K. Bye," I say.

"Bye."

I let my hand fall off the receiver and rest my chin between my knobby knees. I'm facing the counter, scanning the clutter, as if something significant would ever appear there.

I don't like it when things just appear.

Darren used me. Fucker.

I'm not beautiful. I have small tits and stringy hair and knobby knees. My hipbones stick out.

See the scars on my arms? I'm not beautiful.

The blood falls onto the counter, drops coalescing to make bigger drops and tiny puddles. The knife is in my hand, and I don't even know how it got there.

Sleep. I can't be in pain inside when I have pain outside. One wound at a time.

Rod was watching me at work today. I know he was. He followed my legs around the smoking section. My lips curve up slightly, remembering the prickle of being seen, the goose bumps that raised up, even making my nipples hard. Maybe he could see that, too. How unfortunate that I had to wear black pants and the stuffy white dress shirt with only the top button undone. Maybe if I unbutton the next button, he'll keep coming closer, as long as I can get away with the uniform breach.

After all, Rod is a manager.

I strip the white shirt and black pants away, smiling at the sunlight touching my skin through the window. I lay the pants over the back of a chair for tomorrow.

Gotta wash the shirt. Good thing the bloodstain didn't soak through. I wouldn't want Rod to see it. It's only a scratch, anyway. I slide a T-shirt on. It doesn't try to cover my ugliness, like my jeans cover my knobby knees.

In the kitchen, I reward myself with JD and Coke. One for working hard. One for Rod. One to say, "To hell with you, Darren." One for Joel; can't leave him out. One for me.

*   &

The shriek of the phone ringing penetrates my blissful silence. Rod?

"Hello?"

"Hello, dear." Mom. Shit. Should've let the machine get it.

"Hi."

"What's new with you?"

"Nothing. Jus-st working," I say, my tongue slipping away from me.

"You're not drinking again, are you?"

"No. I'm tired. Busy day." Gotta be careful about my words.

"Well, all right." Mom clears her throat. "Do you have a day off soon? Your dad and I would love to see you."

I bet.

"I dunno. It's summer. Hard to get away." I light a cigarette. She hates it when I smoke on the phone.

"Well, maybe we could make the trip down to see you, then."

"Maybe." I hope not. "We'll see."

"Your sister's coming home for a week. It'd be nice to have us all together again."

"You off work?"

"No, but your dad is."

A fist closes tightly around my belly. I can't leave Tasha alone up there. Not her, too.

"Maybe I'll be able to get a day or two."

"Oh, good!" Mom is happy. She can have her tormented children and sick husband all together again. "Let me know."

"I will. Listen, I gotta go. I'm meeting some friends in a little bit, and I'm not ready."

"All right, sweetie. You take care of yourself. Make sure you get enough rest."

"I always do. Bye, Mom."

"Bye."

I forget to hang the phone up until the operator's recording reprimands me. I've been nailed to the wobbly wood chair, right through my gut. My empty glass slips out of my hand and shatters on the linoleum. Pieces everywhere. How will I ever be able to pick up all the shards without hurting myself?

I sink straight down out of the chair and onto my knees. The sea of glass surrounds me. I sweep at the pieces with my hands, trying to gather them into a pile. The big pieces yield easily enough, but the tiny splinters don't move anywhere unless they're stuck in my palms. They prickle and sting, and some of them well up tiny red beads. The splinters glisten in the light like fresh snowflakes on the coldest mornings.

I pick up a Dorito-size shard. Its edges are bright and clean, meeting in a sparkling needle-like point. Like a diamond, the brilliance of the cut draws me to hold it closer, to test its facets in the light, to try it on. It surpasses my expectations. It doesn't even hurt.

A knock? Nobody's coming to see me.

The spots on the ceiling whirl and fade and sharpen again. The shards of glass stab at my back; this must be what it feels like to lie on a bed of nails. Little prickles and bigger pricks.

Who's knocking?

"Sonya, wake up. I know you're there. Your light's on and your car's here. Sonya!"

Joel? But you're with Shitface.

I think I'm standing up, until the glass stabs at my hands and leg and hip again. I guess I'm not standing, after all.

"Sonya? You OK?"

Doesn't he know that I'm not beautiful?

I creep like a baby to the door, leaving a trail of glass splinters and blood as they both fall out of me; I use the doorknob to find my feet again.

"'Bout time, Sonya. I'm waiting."

Leaning on the door frame for support, I fumble with the deadbolt and door chain. My weight turns the doorknob as I fall to the floor again, releasing its clutch on the wall. Joel pushes the door until my leg stops it.

The prickles return to my back.

"Sonya? Oh, shit!"

Barbara E. Prater