“We’ve talked about my scars,” I say, my voice low, the words barely breaking the silence. “But you never told me about yours.”
She opens her eyes slowly, lashes lifting as she blinks up at my hand tracing her skin. “What do you want to know?”
“How did you get them?” I ask cautiously, tasting the lingering bitterness of the nightmare, feeling it fade slowly as I focus on her.
She inhales sharply, a shaky breath that makes her chest rise and fall with fragile tremors. “I was in some places before The Order found me,” she says, her words tight, strained, carrying the weight of memory.
I weave my fingers through her hair, savoring the softness that seems almost unreal against the raw tension coiled in her body.
“My mom convinced the judge that I needed more than a simple prison sentence,” she continues. “She used to say she could feel the darkness inside me, that I needed mental help. So after I killed my dad, I went to prison first, and from there they transferred me to the local asylum.”
She shifts slightly, but her body remains pressed to mine, leaning into the comfort of my touch without hesitation.
“The shithole I lived in had nothing to boast about, except for that place—and only for the methods they used,” she explains. “They contained psychopaths from all over the globe. On the outside, it looked legal. Everyone thought they were following advanced methods to treat hard cases. But in reality, the owner just had the right connections. Nothing was legal. They used electroshock therapy, metrazol, insulin shock—anything to make us obedient.”
A shiver crawls down my spine as her words wash over me. I had suspected that the asylum wasn’t the pristine sanctuary it claimed to be, but hearing it from Estella makes it tangible.
“They made everyone believe that these methods were only for hopeless cases,” she continues, voice low, almost haunted. “But it wasn’t true. The doctors were obsessed with turning us into obedient vegetables. They didn’t care about healing anyone. Some patients had their brains scrambled by lobotomy.”
I tighten my hold on her, pressing her closer, refusing to release even an inch.
“We were experimented on. My scars are proof of that. Whenever we were granted a shower, guards stood there and watched us, making sure we didn’t snap and hurt anyone.” She pauses, breath hitching. “I remember their eyes tracing the map of my fresh scars. They admired the ugliness they’d carved into me. And one time, I managed to get a pen into my cell. And then I just?—”
A sudden sob tears through her, and she clears her throat hard. I pull her even closer, my arms wrapping around her with enough certainty to anchor her, to tell her without words that I’m here.
“I just cut them out myself,” she finally forces out. “I stabbed the pen into the fresh wounds, sliced them back open, watched myself becoming uglier. It felt better knowing the pain and the ugliness came from my own hand. It brought me comfort.”
“I understand,” I whisper. “It’s unorthodox, but it feels better.”
“With time, I stopped hiding them,” she goes on. “I stopped wearing long sleeves during hot weather. I forced myself to show my skin and trained myself to look away from what I hated. Eventually, I stopped noticing the ugliness—I just ignored it.”
I tilt my head, looking at her with a certainty that settles into my bones. “Your scars are anything but ugly, Estella. I know why you feel the way you do, and I know I can’t undo years of your thoughts or make you suddenly see them differently. But I want you to know what I think about when I look at them.”
I fall silent, letting my words settle between us.
“Every time I look at them, they remind me of spider lilies,” I murmur. “Their blooms rise on naked stalks in late summer or fall, with the foliage appearing only afterward. The flowers seem to appear out of nowhere and endure, strong and impossible to ignore. Just like you.”
My voice drops even quieter. “Breathtaking, born from a place bare and raw. A force that bloomed into beauty despite everything that tried to bury it.”
I feel the anxiety inside her begin to loosen its grip. It recedes, step by step, until her body softens against mine.
Grief leaks out of both of us, slipping through the fractures we’ve learned to hide. It pours between us like two pillarscollapsing in unison, each unable to stay upright without the other.
And as she breathes into me, I understand one thing with absolute clarity.
The next time I fall back into the nightmare, I won’t be falling alone.
Halloween is a week away, and as much as I’m tempted to stay inside with Dante, I can’t ignore the rituals I’ve kept every year. Every Halloween, I don a costume, giving one of the many masks I wear a body—and this year can’t be any different.
My fingers curl around a paper cone of Turrón ice cream, the cold seeping into my hand, while I pull out a small waffle and shove it into my mouth. I moan, and my gaze snaps to Dante, who still stares at his cone like it’s a foreign object.
We’re wandering toward one of my favorite clothing stores, hunting for costumes, but along the way, we can’t resist the ice cream.
A sharp laugh bursts out of me, almost choking me on the crumbs in my mouth. “I told you to get the avocado,” I tease, the edge of sarcasm threading my words, “and you agreed, but now you look like you’re doubting my taste.”
Dante jerks his head toward me, defensiveness flickering in his eyes. “No, not at all. I’m just—” He trails off, voice unsure. “I mean… It’s sogreen.”
I can’t hold it in. Laughter erupts from my chest, spilling over, making me bend forward slightly and bump him with my shoulder.
