Permanent Scars

The Death Threat

October 15, Wednesday. 3:15 p.m.

The human body is a fickle machine. I've spent two and a half weeks at home, isolated in sickness. Recovery seemed immediate within the first few days, but as it turned out, I only got better to get worse. What seemed bad in the beginning only waned into something more terrible, and I'm finally almost over it.

   Now, two and a half weeks later, older, thinner, feeling a bit stronger, I'm sitting huddled in blankets on the couch in my living room, attempting to catch up on all the digital homework I've been sent. Responsible kid that I am, I notified the school of my illness as soon as I was able to stand without puking. They were relatively easy about it, said they'd send assignments to my tablet, and to come back once I was well.

   It could be another week before then, but I'm honestly grateful I've been sick. It has given me a break from all the drama and bullying. Given me a chance to recuperate.

   Earlier on in my illness, I had a couple more incidents with the vandals. I'm pretty sure they were messing with Mama's garden last night. At this point, there's unfortunately nothing I can do to stop them—they always leave before I can try. Once I am well enough to go back to school, I'm gonna have to patch up the damage. I've done a little bit here and there the past few days, on top of homework, but I don't want to overexert myself and I'm going to need to pick up a few supplies in town. Yes, I have to repaint the porch.

Many naps, showers, and bowls of soup have been taken. Mackerel follows me around as if expecting me to drop dead any second, her baby eyes anxiously wide and her crazy meow unusually silent. The cessation of her noise unsettles me. She's always been whiny, and I got used to it. It was a homey sound. Now all I hear is the house creaking in protest of its age, and I do my best every day to get up without having a panic attack, without fearing for my safety, without dreading what may lurk outside.

   Dropping my tablet onto its charging pad, eyes burning with strain after tirelessly completing a myriad of assignments, I stretch my slightly aching arms and legs. I'm feeling much more normal today, but fatigue still comes easily. Mackerel has been napping near my feet this entire time. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, I crawl out of my blanket nest and head to the bathroom, stopping for a tiny snack in the kitchen on the return trip. I take a few bites, quickly losing interest. Nothing really seems to appetize me after getting sick, and I haven't eaten much since recovery. It's probably not a good thing, but I can't make myself eat if I know I'll only throw it up.

   Suppose I'd better go clean up the porch. I don't want the vandals' mess on display any longer than it's already been.

   Tying my sneakers, grabbing a broom and dustpan, I throw on the green jacket that belonged to my brother when he was still alive. It's too big, but it's heavy and keeps the chill off. Besides, it makes me feel safer.

Outside, the sun is trying to peek through the thick blanket of clouds overhead, giving the sky a brighter hue than its customary cool-gray. A light breeze briskly streaks through the trees, taking swirls leaves along in its wake. It's a beautiful day to be out here. Perfect day for yard work. I only wish I wasn't out here just because some vandals decided to mess with the yard and house.

   First things first, I sweep mounds of sod off the porch. They must have taken shovel-loads of the stuff to lob at the house, for the front lawn is full of holes and I've just noticed the window is broken. Spray-painted obscenities deface the property. The knowledge of them being there makes me nauseous and grateful that no one came to check on me the entire time, or else they'd have seen all this.

Ducking back inside, I riffle through the entryway closet for a paper bag to put the bits of broken window in. I'll dump them into the trash-energy converter later.

I'm not sure how I'm going to fix the window. It's double-paned but both panes have holes in them. I'll have to check the basement for some plexiglass or something to cover the holes with. It's too cold to leave them open like that.

What would Daddy say if he suddenly came home and saw all this? They were here every single night this week. Should I tell somebody?

Fear seizes my heart as I realize I have no idea what to do. I've never had to deal with this kind of thing in my whole seventeen years of existence.

I dump the pieces of glass in the trash, then grab a bucket and some chemicals from the laundry room. There's a special mixture—which I discovered by accident—that does an exceptional job removing paint and other unwanted markings, leaving things unmolested and looking brand new. Putting on a pair of heavy duty rubber gloves, I stir this mixture together in the bucket and use it to scrub the graffiti off. My arms get tired, rubbing that sponge so hard against every desecrated object. But I'm determined not to have those things on display anymore. I will not tolerate this nonsense, and I wish I could stop it, but I don't know where to begin.

You should tell somebody.

Furrowing my brow, I shake my head at the thought. Who would I tell?
There's no one I could possibly trust enough. And I'm not allowed to communicate with Daddy unless they let him call home, so it's not like I can just call him up and let him know what's happening.

I'll just keep cleaning up and dealing with it, handling things the way I always do—in complete silence.

When I come to the last bit of graffiti, I slow down. Something about it—though it's already quite obscene—is unusual.

Before touching the sponge upon it, I touch the disrespectful artwork with my fingers. There's a thin piece of metal under all that paint. Lifting it by the corner, I see that there is a message scrawled menacingly on the back in jagged, drunken penmanship:

This is your last warning. Get the hell out, or we finish you.

Trembling, confused, feeling more unsafe than I ever have in my life, I scramble to my feet and rush inside.