Relieved, I turn off my phone. Lie down. Stare at the ceiling.
What am I going to do about Marco?
43
Marco
Istand in front of the en-suite bathroom mirror and force myself to look.
The scar runs from my right cheekbone down to my jaw. A thick ridge where the surgeon reattached what the bear tore off. The claw track at my forehead is lighter but still visible. Another ridge crosses my left collarbone, disappearing under my shirt.
I run my fingertips down the facial scar. Flinch at the texture. The nerve endings are still raw, still firing pain signals my brain can’t quite process.
The urge to punch the mirror hits hard. Again.
I ball my right hand into a fist. The fresh bandage around my knuckles reminds me I already did this three days ago. Shattered the glass. Bled all over the sink. Neli was pissed. Gave me that look that said she wasn’t here to babysit a grown man throwing tantrums.
Fair enough.
Niamh had the mirror replaced the same evening, while I hid in another room.
Hide.
All I do is fucking hide.
I unwrap the bandage slowly. The cuts are healing. Everything’s fucking healing. The shoulder bandages came off yesterday. The arm wraps this morning.
Just the psychological damage left to deal with.
Easy.
My reflection stares back. This is what I am now. A before and after photo except the before is gone and the after is all anyone will see.
Maybe I’ll let Jess see my fucking face when I’ve had more reconstructive surgery done.
The thought surfaces before I can stop it. More surgery. More anesthesia. More recovery. More morphine dreams where I’m falling into fires that never go out.
Dr. Reeves said I could do another round if I wanted. Smooth some of the ridge. Minimize the texture. Make it less...
Lesswhat?
Monstrous?
I turn away from the mirror. Walk back into my bedroom where Isotta’s ceramic mixing bowl sits on the dresser. The one Jessica packed away from the kitchen. Handed it to me through the crack in the door like she was returning stolen property.
I’d taken it and closed the door in her face. Added it to the collection of guilt I’m hoarding in here.
The bowl is cream-glazed. Hand-thrown. Isotta made it in a ceramics class the year before Ben was born. Used it for everything. Pizza dough. Pasta. The lemon olive oil cake she’d make on Sundays.
When she was alive I was happy.
Or I thought I was.
Except I wasn’t.
Not really.
Because even then, even when I had a face and a wife and a life that looked perfect from the outside, I was thinking about someone else.
