Cold, Hungry, and Torn (Feat. Johnny Depp)

Chapter 4: The Fault In Our Scars

Chapter Four: The Fault In Our Scars. 

 I stood in shock in front of the amazing house Johnny claimed as his. It didn’t seem fitting. He looked like such a street rat, but he lived here? 

 “This place is actually yours?” I asked as I turned to face Johnny, who was turning the key to his place. Aside from responding, he just laughed. It wasn’t a huge place, or a mansion or anything, but it was better than anywhere I’d ever lived. 

 When he finally got the door open, I felt bad for stepping in. “Do I need to take off my shoes or something?” I asked him quietly, feeling embarrassed. He looked down at my homemade, torn, and broken shoes, and shook his head. “What size are you?” He asked, gesturing to my shoes as he stepped into his place. I didn’t answer. I’m pretty self conscious of my feet. 

 “Well?” He asked again. I looked down and said as quietly as possible, “I think like... A nine?” I hesitated. I wasn’t entirely sure. He smiled, “Thats not to bad. I’ll see what I got.” he responded. I could feel the blood going to my cheeks and I hid my face behind my hair. I hadn’t blushed in over three years. 

 When I stepped into his place, I felt like melting. I hadn’t felt a heater or air conditioning of a house in so long, it didn’t even seem real. I took a deep breath in, logging into my brain that his house smelt of cigarettes and cheap cologne. I smiled bigger than I had in a while. 

 “You alright?” Johnny asked, noticing my smile and the look as though I was going to melt. “Better than ever.” I responded, looking back at him. 

 He then stuck his hand out, as though waiting for me to give him something. “What?” I asked, confused. “Your coat? It’s hot in here. Here, I’ll hang it up and have it washed for you.” He responded. 

 I felt my heart sink, and it felt as though something got caught in my chest. I hadn’t actually taken off this jacket in at least a year. I couldn’t dare to take it off. I couldn’t dare reveal what lied underneath. 

 “Uh.. No, it’s fine... I’ll keep it on...” I insisted. “Nonsense.” He demanded, extending his hand farther. I looked at him with a look of fear, and he looked back at me confused. Finally, something must have clicked in his mind, and he looked sad and full of sympathy. 

 He hesitated before whispering, “Those blisters on your hands aren’t your only wounds and scars are they?”. I shook my head and fought back tears. He looked at me with sympathy again, and then took a step closer to me, causing him to be less than a foot away from me. I looked down, avoiding eye contact. 

 He stepped behind me and gently grabbed the sleeve of my coat, and slowly pulled it off my arms as I cringed. When the heavy army jacket was finally off my arms and back entirely, I closed my eyes, not even wanting myself to see what lied underneath. When I noticed the silence, I realized that I no longer felt Johnny’s presence. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes, and looked down at my arms. 

 Revealed by my loose tank top, was every scar, wound, and bruise I had ever gotten. Mostly self inflicted scars running from my the top of my wrists, all the way up to my collar bones. Some were the stereotypical white girl scars, but most were horrific. Some bigger and deeper ones were about in inch or so wide, and to deep for anyone’s comfort. I had only stopped self harming about a month ago, but some were still slightly open due to the rubbing of my jacket and falling on the pavement outside. Aside from the self inflicted scars, I could still see my stab wound scar, my burns, and horrible bruises from being beaten. 

 Johnny was no longer standing near me, so in a panic, I began looking around. “Johnny?” I shouted throughout the house. “Hold on.” he responded from another room. I simply waited in silence. 

 Finally, Johnny came walking back into the room with a rag and some sort of bottle. He came straight up to me, standing even closer than he was before, grabbed my arm, and slowly and gently, pressed the cold, damp rag against my arm. I cringed at the feeling. It was horribly cold, but it felt amazing. He then continued to clean my wounds in silence. I had to fight against every instinct not to throw him to the ground whenever he touched my arms. But I managed. 

 “There...” He said quietly, setting the rag and bottle down on a table closest to us. I looked down, and was amazed at how much the redness of the wounds and scars went down. I looked back and Johnny, and he was slightly smiling at me, and leaned in to whisper in my ear. “It’s alright. I did it too when my parents got divorced.” he reassured me. I smiled slightly.

 He backed away from me slightly, and looked at me again, this time, not with sympathy, but with a different look that I could not name. 

 “Never be afraid to show your scars around me. Our bodies are like journals,” he said, pointing to one of his tattoos, “whether the marks are put there by blades, or by a professional tattoo artist. I’ll never judge you.”