Permanent Scars

If You Only Knew

September 22, Monday. 3:40 p.m.

Bitter wind bites at my face, reminding me that winter isn't far and I'm gonna have to start wearing an outer garment warmer than Adam's hoodie.

   Once again, I'm walking home alone—Dylan had a half day and Adam is still absent. I don't speak to Mia. It's not even intentional. I have nothing to say to her, and frankly, she seems to be avoiding me. I find this ironic since she's the one who makes my blood boil, and anyone would think the avoidance would be on my part. It's kind of an unfortunate situation to be in, since my first impression of her was that she was nice. But some people are just really good at faking. I've started to learn that.

Avoidance. That's a strong word. In a way, it seems to sum up my life lately.

   Bile rises to my throat as I recall what went down today. Before class this morning, Tate found me, cornered me, then surrendered me to Vicky and the girls—but not before he'd had his share in the torture. I can't even repeat most of the awful things they said and did—it all runs together in my mind like too many paints on a palette—but they targeted me all day, taunting me about my "caretaker" being absent, cornering me whenever they could. They took my lunch so I had to go hungry, and every time I used the restroom there were always two of Vicky's cohorts—usually Brii and Meryl—waiting to pounce on me before I could even lock myself in a stall. My head was flushed so many times I'm sure I must smell like a toilet by now, though nobody said a word about it. That's the thing about these bullies: they always manage to get you alone, and after they've done their deeds, they don't speak about it in front of the others.

   Sometimes, I almost wish they would.
  
   Now my ears are full of water—have been all day—and it's cold out, and it has started to drizzle considerably.

   Shivering, nauseous, I drag my sopping feet along and linger when I come to the hollow leading to Adam's place. I could really use his company. Despite his overwhelming self-pity and resentment and overall hatred for his situation and the way the world is, he always manages to make me feel better. Maybe it's because he has a way of making me focus my attention on him rather than on myself. I like that. I like how he gets me out of my head just enough to where I feel I can breathe, I have a slight sense of clarity, of sanity.

   No, I won't go visit him today. I need to get home. My feet feel heavier the longer I'm out here, but that's because they're getting more and more wet as the precipitation density increases.

   When I finally make it to my front porch, my heart sags in despair to find more evidence of sabotage. I'd been hoping that one vandalism incident had been the first and final. Clearly, I was mistaken.

   The rain is torrential now, practically streaming from the sky in sheets, soaking me clear through to the bone. My backpack is thankfully waterproof—Daddy made sure of that—but that's about the only thing on my person that's been saved from the rain.

   It's not like my homework is even that important.

Hands shaking intensely, so much to the point it takes several tries to unlock the door, I finally stumble into the house and flick the lights on. Mackerel meows plaintively from someplace within. Shedding my backpack in the entryway and locking the door behind me, body trembling with each labored step, I somehow manage to make it upstairs and into the bathroom, stripping my wet clothes off in the hall on the way there. I crank the shower as hot as it will go and stand there, room filling with steam that sleeps out the open door into the hallway. The heat feels good, reaches my bones, but makes me shake even worse. I can't stand, so I sit on the shower floor with knees pulled to my chin.

   I sit here for a long time, eyes closed, just hoping the chill in my core will go away.

   It doesn't.

   Eventually the water begins to lose its heat, and I'm left with no choice but to shut it off or else run the risk of a cold shower tomorrow morning, which I don't want to do because I really hate cold showers.

   Wrapping my hair in a towel, I cover myself in a clean bathrobe that used to be Daddy's. It's too big and trails along the floor, but that's what I like about it. Its size traps the remaining heat ebbing off my body, helping me retain it to some degree.

   Mackerel has found me, yowling bitterly because I forgot to feed her this morning. I can't be bothered about that now. After towel drying my hair as much as I can, I take a blow dryer to it, shaking all the while. In my room I pull out some warm clothes for bed and cover myself in them, abandoning the bathrobe on the floor and crawling under my covers. Sleep consumes me almost the minute my head hits the pillow, and the last thing I remember thinking about is how much I wish Daddy was here.