Thirty-Nine
When my eyes open in the morning, the first thing I remember is the slick wetness of blood, the crunch of cartilage, the burbling water swirling around the toilet bowl. I shudder, staring at the pockmarked ceiling, and reach for my phone.
There’s a barrage of messages from Geoffrey. At least twenty. I scroll through them, my distaste for him growing.
Ji-won 
He’s so irritating. I try to ignore him, but when my phone vibrates again, buzzing loudly, I type back a furious message:
I’m ten minutes late for the psychology final and rush into the lecture hall, bag swinging, chest heaving, sweat dripping down my face. Seeing me, Professor Thompson presses her lips together and crosses her arms.
“You’re late,” she points out angrily, as if I don’t know. I blink at her stupidly while trying to come up with a response.
Yeah, sorry, I ate a homeless guy’s eyeball last night, and I’m really struggling with it, so. . . .
I shake my head. “Sorry,” I whisper. She sighs with disapproval but hands me the exam. I rush over to the seat Alexis has saved, ignoring the worried look she gives me before clearing her backpack away. I sit down and read the first question.
How does language shape emotion and perception?
Taking a deep breath, I start writing.
Halfway through the test, I stop, dizzy and disoriented. My hands feel strange. I glance down and see that they’re covered in blood. This time, it’s not a dream. It’s real. I shudder.
“What are you doing, Ji-won?” Alexis hisses.
“My hands,” I moan.
“What about them?” She glances toward the front, where Professor Thompson is glaring at us. “Just finish your test!”
“I can’t. I can’t. There’s so much blood—”
“Ladies, is there a problem here?” The entire class is looking at us now, and Professor Thompson’s face is white with rage. “You do know this exam isn’t a group activity, right?”
“I’m sorry,” Alexis says quickly. “Ji-won isn’t feeling well, and—”
“My hands are covered . . .”
“There’s nothing on your hands, Ji-won!” Alexis snaps. Her expression is pleading. “We need to finish the final. Please!”
It’s Alexis’s tone that brings me back to reality. I stare at my hands until the blood disappears. “Sorry,” I mumble, before leaning over my paper and desperately trying to focus.
After the test is over, Professor Thompson stops me at the door. “Ji-won, right?”
I nod.
“Have you thought about seeing one of the on-campus therapists?” Her anger gone, she studies my face. “It’s free.”
“Oh, no. I don’t need that. I’m fine.”
She shrugs. “I see a lot of bright young women like you—smart and capable—who have a hard time dealing with the pressure of college. Talking to someone might help.”
I thank her and stumble out into the too-bright sunshine. Because it’s finals week, there are more people than usual on campus. All the tables and benches are packed with students cramming last-minute material into their strained, overwhelmed brains. I walk past them, dazed, and notice a campus security guard walking toward me. Right away there’s a sinking sensation in my stomach. I freeze.
But he doesn’t stop. All he does is walk past me with a nod. I let out a ragged breath. I turn to go, but the students who were only a second ago studying are now staring, their gazes fixated on me.
They know what I’ve done. They know.
Their skin stretches and grows; holes begin appearing all over their bodies, and in each hole an eye emerges, bright blue and staring. I cover my face with my hands and run.