“Which ones?”
“All of them.” I demand.
It was clear with my initial sight of her that she's been through hell, and now she's here.
But it's not burn marks that mar her beautiful flesh... they're marks from a blade. The way she didn't even flinch when I held a knife to her throat assures me that isn't the first time someone's done it, though maybe itisthe first time she's welcomed it.
I didn't miss the way she shuddered, the way she opened more to me.
“The ones you can't see are the reason for the ones you can.” She eyes me thoughtfully. “It's fucked, isn't it, that the worst thing to ever happen to you can leave you looking perfectly whole, and then something as innocuous as a can opener can mar you forever?” She laughs a little, holding up her thumb to show me a small, silvery-looking one above her knuckle.
When I say nothing, she decides to fill the silence.
“I can't see your scars. You think your beast protects you, but he just covers what was already there. I saw them today.”
I blink, unsure what she's talking about. I don't think I haveanyscars, actually.
“Yours are in your head. That doesn't mean they’re not real. It just means that the people who put them there used their words to do it.”
We're supposed to be talking about her, but I'm suddenly intrigued.
“You're saying I'm crazy?”
“Maybe.” She shakes her head, laughing a little. “I think you have to be a little crazy to survive this world. If you aren't, the world will bend you and break you until you are.”
“That's what happened to you?” I surmise.
“I'm not crazy.” She says calmly. “I'm just angry. There's a difference.”
“What are you angry about?” I can hazard a guess, but something tells me now isn't the time to play the guessing game.
“That the world hasn't given up yet.” She sighs. “I've been broken for a long time. Kids are assholes, you know? Growing up without parents already makes you an outcast, but then getting placed with a monster... arealmonster...”She clarifies. “That's a kiss of death. It laid the groundwork for the rest of my life. I'm weird. I always have been, and I never tried to shake it because at least it gave other kids a reason not to want to be friends with me. It gave me a reason not to invite friends back to my place to meet Eric, allowing me to protect them.”
“Who's Eric?” I ask, though I can gather enough context clues that he was meant to be some sort of authority figure.
“Swine.” She shrugs. “A fucking pig who stumbled into my room on my sixteenth birthday and told me he'd been dying inside waiting for this night. I died inside waiting for it to be over.”
Something twists inside of me, rage uncoiling from a place I can't see. No more need for context clues, because I can imagineexactlywhat she's getting at.
I don't want to. I want to kill. I want my beast to rise to the surface for me, to hunt down the son of a bitch who hurt my little doll and make him fucking suffer.
But my beast is dormant, hiding after her dragging him to the surface.
“I'll kill him.” I promise her, because I don't know what else to say. I know her well enough to know she won't appreciate any sympathy.
She snorts out a laugh, ignoring me.
“Nobody ever stopped him. Two years, and he came more often than not. He didn't beat me or hold a gun to my head. He just came and held me down, told me to be quiet, and take it. And I did. I just... let him, even though it killed me slowly. Parker tried to help, but it nearly got him killed, and I was so ashamed that I didn't fight…”
Her voice cuts off abruptly, choked by a sound like a sob.
There's something beyond all my rage. Something I don't know how to put a name to. This isn't territory I know how to tread.
All I know is that I’m angry... and more than that, I'm sad.
“Not fighting doesn't mean you wanted it.” I tell her gently. “You have to know that, right?”
“I wish I had.” She swallows. “I wish he'd held a gun to my head, beat me or something…”
