Permanent Scars

Vandals

September 9, Saturday. 9:52 a.m.

Dragging open my eyes, head thudding, I push myself up from the mattress. The clock on my nightstand tells me I've slept way later than I normally do, but it's the weekend so that must be okay. It's not like I have any obligations or engagements.

   Sliding groggily off the bed, bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor. Rubbing my tousled head, I plod out of my room and down the hall to the bathroom. I'm going to take a nice long, hot shower because I can. Plus, after being out so late last night, I feel kinda gross.

   Mackerel hears me get up, comes upstairs to check on me like the sweet kitty she is. I let her into the bathroom with me and she jumps on the counter, purring happily. With a watery smile, I run a hand over her head, down her back to her tail a couple times, then finish undressing and step into the shower. The hot water feels good, as does the coconut shampoo I'm lathering into my hair. Out of nowhere I find myself humming Boulevard of Broken Dreams, hearing Adam and Mia's voices in the back of my mind. They harmonized so well on the chorus, and I loved how they alternated verses. Much as I enjoyed their performance, something in the way they sang together gave me an impression of sorts. Only problem is, I can't put a finger on it.

   Mackerel starts meowing loudly, the way she always does when she hears my phone vibrating, or someone at the door. I left my phone in the bedroom and between her howling and the water running, it's not like I can hear the door, if anyone is knocking.

   "Be quiet, baby," I lovingly scold her, flicking a drop of water at her ear. "Let me have my time alone. Last night was fun but it was also a culture shock."

   Yes, I talk to my cat. Got a problem with it?

   Mackerel gives me a hard look that plainly says, "Do you think I care about your culture shock, human?"

      I shake my head at her and finish my shower, wrapping one towel around my body and another around my head. In the back of my mind, I can still hear Adam and Mia singing in their perfect way. It's almost taunting, and something deep inside me turns over and twists tightly like a rag being wrung out. Such a feeling is unpleasant, but I don't know what to call it. I don't know where it came from, why I feel it. Why does the sound of such a wonderful, talented duo make me feel like doubling over and vomiting?

My hands shake as I pull on my jeans, legs faring no better in the process. Zipping my jeans, reaching for an oversized T-shirt and pulling it over my head, I take a deep breath and convince myself that I am in control. The queasiness slowly dissipates. I can walk without my gut cramping in protest. I finish dressing, then towel-dry my hair as thoroughly as possible. Mackerel bolts out ahead of me when I open the door, bounding downstairs as quickly as she can go. Slowly following her, I perk up my hearing in case there really is something unusual going on.

   Cautiously making my way through the kitchen, peeking through the curtains on every window, a deep sense of unease grows inside me. Nothing in the backyard appears to be out of the ordinary.

   CRASH.

Mackerel bolts toward me in terror. I catch her in my arms, feeling her little heart race as she pants for breath.

   "Where is it, Mackie? Where's the trouble?" I'm only speaking to give myself the illusion that I'm not the only person here. Sad, I know. But such is the story of my life.

   Setting my kitten down in her favorite box behind the couch, stroking her gently to calm her. Another strange noise cuts the therapy session short, and I rise from behind the couch, marching to the front door to find out what it is. I fling it open, thrusting my head out in time to glimpse a small group of people dashing hell-for-leather down the road. They're clad head to toe in vomitous green suits, and there's no way to identify who they are. One thing's for sure, though—they're extremely quick.

Fighting the panic that threatens to rise inside me, I bravely step outside to see what these mysterious beings were up to. It doesn't take long for me to assess the damage—a simple view of the front of the house is enough.

Offensive signs and posters have been plastered all over the front yard—signs and posters directly insulting me and my father, blaming me for his mistakes and him for whatever global issues people are obsessed with nowadays. Graffiti defaces the posts of the front porch and our front walk, and some of the plants out front have been destroyed. Hurt, confused, and angry, I turn inside for supplies to begin cleaning up this mess.