Scarred (Scorching Soldier's #1)

Part 5

"VIII
You wanna know how I got these scars?
See I swallowed my pride,
And then it clawed its way out of my mouth..."
- Scars, Rudy Francisco  

____________
Chapter 5
____________

GAGE

I'm conflicted about where I want to be. It's been a week since I'd left Serena. A week after the party. And now I find myself up at midnight, in a mental dispute. Don't want to stay home in the house where I found my girlfriend cheating on me. Don't want to be in public where people stare at my scars and make me feel uncomfortable. There's no alcohol in the house. The substance which I'm slowly creating a dependency on. It's a destructive habit.

I'm consumed by my thoughts. Finding it harder to escape them, and my dreams are getting worse. The last one I had, had me vomiting and shivering on the cold hard bathroom floor. My therapist told me in a previous session that there will be no miracles with my recovery. Only effort and long months of remembering, reprocessing... nightmares. My pride is in shreds. Ripping me apart, limb by limb. Fixing that could never be a 24-hour ritual.

I decide that I need to take a walk, thinking that perhaps fresh air will help. Shaky hands pull open my dresser and I pick out a black jumper with a hood, figuring I could always use that to cover my face. I slept in joggers and decide they'll have to do. Can't be bothered changing them, don't have a desperate need to. If people are going to judge me, it's not going to be because of a pair of pants I'd already slept in.

It's probably a bad idea for me to be in a bar while in this state of mind, but my legs take me there anyway. I didn't even realise where I was headed, until I saw the neon sign dancing in an array of colours above the doors wide open. A couple of drinks wouldn't hurt me, and my cravings were getting worse. Stopping myself from stumbling in here isn't an option.

The music's loud, and helps drown out my thoughts. I order the same I always do. Scotch and lime. It's the best way to get drunk quick. I keep my hood up, understanding that it probably looked abnormal in the place where people were open with their physical prowess, but not having enough heart to reveal what's under it. The bartender notices my face - with him staring at me directly and all, but doesn't say anything. It'd be bad service if he did.

My drink burns my throat, in a way that makes me hang my head back in relief. My life is just a series of burns, lately. In a sick way, I find it comical that my coping mechanism is symbolic of the root of my problem. My therapist would not approve, but what he doesn't know won't hinder the process.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and I roll my eyes while I shudder at the prospect of talking to someone while I'm wallowing in the brunt force of my PTSD. I don't look towards the person calling for my attention, but I still talk.

"What?" I spit out. Maybe my hostility would help them take the hint that I'm not in the mood to talk to anyone.

It doesn't.

"Is anyone sitting in this chair?" It's a girl. I don't recognise the voice. She drags out the bar stool from next to me.

"I'd prefer it if no one was sitting in that chair." I down another mouthful of my drink and tug the sides of my hood down further for better concealment.

"Aren't you a bit hot with your jumper on?"

"Nope."

"Struggle to see how that's possible. I'm in a tank top and I'm hotter than a fire."

I don't reply.

"You're not really that friendly tonight, are you? What's your poison? Bad break-up? Lose a job?"

This girl is really getting on my nerves. She really wants to know what my poison is? What's killing me inside out? I turn to her. Face her. Let her see what's hiding under the jumper. Her brown eyes widen.

Any other time, and I'd probably consider her cute. She's a fiery redhead, with a pretty little face that probably has other guys trailing at her heels. She has hardly any clothes on which makes me wonder exactly how she could be hotter than fire to put it in her own words. Maybe it was a flirting tactic. But right now, with the startled look on her face, she's just a nuisance.

  "This is my poison, sweetheart."  

"I-I'm s-sorry," she stutters and moves back a step.

Looks like her friendliness has hit a wall. I'm about to turn back to my drink pleased with my diversion of appraisal, when a big guy approaches from behind her. The snarl on his face has me recognising a primitive possessiveness. My guess is that this is the boyfriend of the little redhead. Just my luck.

"Are you bothering my girl, you piece of sh*t?" From my peripheral, I see him grab her waist and pull her back away from me. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I'd only come in here for a drink, and look what I'd gotten myself into.

"She came to me."

Testosterone gets the better of the guy and he gets close to me, chest brushing against my shoulder. I'm still sat on my stool, steadying my breathing to try to stop myself from an outburst. Then again, maybe that's exactly what I need? A fist fight to direct my angst outwards.

"Keep her on a leash next time, big guy." Aaand then I can't help myself. I push the bastard right where I want him. "With an ass like hers, you might want to make sure she wears a longer skirt too."

I know it's a sh*tty thing to say. To be fair, I don't mean a word of it - just knew that was exactly what I needed for him to throw the first punch. And it hits me on my jaw, throwing me off my chair and against the bar. The sting feels like home.

I push myself up from the counter and swipe the hoodie from my head, revealing my scars. A dazed expression hits his face.

"You're a f*cking freak."

His words only make me smile. Didn't I know it.

I weigh up his assets, deciding what his weak spots are. He's more flesh than muscle, probably weighing about about 250 pounds. He's also extremely drunk. I'd barely had half a dozen sips of my scotch. Even though I felt the effects, I was only a bit tipsy. His problem would be reflexes. Timing. Catching him off guard would be my best bet.

I swing for his eye, hitting it with precision before he even knew it was coming. I hear a crunch and his body is falling back into the crowd of people now interested in this little brawl. He's supported by a few helpful hands before he can hit the floor. His eye is red, beginning to get irritated. But he comes back swinging at me.

I dodge a fist heading for my cheek, grab hold of the outstretched arm then twist it, driving an elbow into his ribs a few times before grabbing his head and throwing him to the ground. He grapples to grab hold of my legs, but I decide that I've had enough. The security have taken notice at our dispute, so it wouldn't be much fun now anyway. I push my way through the rowdiness to get outside.

Adrenaline courses through my veins, and it isn't until now that I realise my lip is bleeding, dripping down my chin. I wipe it with my sleeve, then pull my hood back up. The weight in my chest dragging me down is no longer there anymore. It's been replaced by the thrill of throwing punches. Of feeling the pain of an aggressive assault. Of the consequences of being incredibly and painstakingly alive.

And now, instead of needing a glass of scotch, all I can think of is where I can get my hands on  a large meaty burger and a cup of coffee.