The Girl with the Scars

Chapter 1

I'm so nervous. Hands shaking. Chest tight. Shit. I didn't take my medication this morning. This is going to be a very bad day.

My hair is straightened and now reaches just above my ass. When its in its natural state, the curls are so tight that my hair only reaches halfway down my back. I'm dressed in a grey pencil skirt with a white blouse tucked into the waistband. It's so uncomfortable.

The skirt is too tight and shows too much of the shape of my buttocks. The blouse's sleeves sit uncomfortably around my arms.

Why didn't I take my medication this morning? We weren't in a rush. We weren't running late. Maybe I just forgot? My nerves made me forget. And forgetting to take my medication will make my nerves worse. A vicious cycle.

Great. Note the sarcasm.

You're going to make a fool of yourself. This boy is going to make his father change his mind about the merge because you aren't good enough to keep his attention. The voice sneers at me and I can feel my eyes water slightly.

Although my parents don't love me, I don't want to disappoint them. I want to make them happy because maybe, just maybe, they will love me if this works.

The three of us get out of the car before the chauffeur, Bryan, pulls off to find parking. My parents never drive. I never learnt although I never asked to learn.

Actually, I did. Once. They asked me why I wanted to learn when I had someone to drive me around. I couldn't come up with a good enough excuse.

I can't show my nerves as we enter the building. They don't know about my panic disorder, anxiety disorder and depression. I never told them. I used my driver to go to therapy sessions and the card Mother and Father gave me to pay for the sessions and my medication. They never check what I pay for and never ask where I go every Monday and Thursday evening.

I don't talk much during my sessions, but I like the quiet it gives me. Dr. Sharon asks questions about the voice. I think she first thought I was schizophrenic, but the voice isn't telling me that people are after me, it just makes me feel shit about myself. She figured out that it wasn't a voice, but actually my inner voice. But I don't like referring to it as mine.

The elevator ride is too quick for my liking. Can't it just break down, so I never have to meet Logan?

My wish isn't granted, and the doors slide open, a grand secondary reception on the other side. I gulp. Sweaty hands. I rub them against my skirt, pretending to smooth it out.

"Stop fussing." Mother hisses in my ear before we leave the comfort of the elevator.

Father grips my arm just above my elbow and pulls me out of the elevator with Mother on my other side. Don't fall or everyone is going to laugh at you. The voice sneers after I stumble slightly in my pair of black stiletto pumps.

"Mr. and Mrs. Bly. How lovely to see you again. Mr. Michaelson and his son are waiting for you in the conference room." The receptionist smiles politely at Mother and Father without acknowledging me. They return the smile and I drop my gaze as they lead me over to a closed door.

"Don't embarrass us." Father hisses before he knocks on the door, the silent 'or you'll regret it' strong in the atmosphere and in his grip on my arm.

There is a strong 'come in' and the three of us enter the room. I keep my eyes locked on the floor as my parents exchange greetings with Bartee and his son, too nervous to look up and see what Logan, my supposed husband-to-be, looks like. To stop my hands from shaking, I grip my black clutch bag.

What a great start! The voice hisses. Way to be awkward and unattractive. Standing like a stone sculpture hoping that no one notices you when you were the first thing to enter the room. Very nice. She continues and I feel a new wave of nausea in the pit of my stomach. Why did I not take my medication this morning?