Permanent Scars

Atrocity

October 18, Saturday. 12:01 a.m.

CRASH!

Glass shatters, wood splinters. Voices cry out in wicked jubilee. Cold sweat, cold skin. My body trembles in bed.

   It's a dream, I promise myself. Just a bad dream. You've had lots of bad dreams before. They seem real but they're not. Calm down, clear your mind. It'll go away.

   Curling beneath the blankets, wondering where on earth Mackie is, I huddle in the darkness. The noises continue, and I know the Vandals are at it. It is not a dream. It's real. They're here for me. They're following through. In addition to their racket, a hailstorm rages outside. I can't help hoping they get a bit hurt from the hailstones. After everything they've put me through, they surely deserve a little pain in return.

   Ah, but fairness is not a policy offered by the universe.

Destruction wages on. I remain where I am, anticipating the moment the Vandals enter the house and take my life.

That moment never comes.

6:52 a.m.

I should shut my eyes. I should sleep. I should ignore the mess waiting for me downstairs. The rain pouring freely into the living room.

Getting out of bed, for a fleeting moment I look around for a lighter, considering arson.

I am not safe here. Daddy said I would be. He lied.

He lied.

I am not safe.

He said I would be.

I never was.

   Shaking, I hurry to dress myself in the darkness. Skinny jeans, mismatched socks, loose-fitting red-brown T-shirt, Adam's hoodie. My sneakers. Ian's jacket. Unlocking the bottom drawer of my dresser, I discover with relief that my ukulele is unmolested. My room is a mess. I'm not sure anyone actually came up here. My head feels fuzzy and I find I can't remember a whole lot of last night. That's unusual for me. I always remember everything—and quite vividly, too. Last night's memories are a string of fragments, like a necklace made of broken beads with no symmetry or logic put into its design. And the very idea of it frustrates me. I have always been the girl who never forgets. The girl with the photographic memory. I don't want to lose that. I don't want to be a scatterbrain like Adam. It's all very well for his personality, but not mine. I feel naked and strange and not myself if I don't have my memory.

   Who would I be if I didn't have my memory?

   A sudden dizzy spell knocks me sideways and I stumble to the floor on my hands and knees, head reeling, vision fading from my left eye as I vomit a foamy white substance onto the hardwood floor.

4:15 p.m.

You passed out. You passed out.