Chapter 104
Mireya
Play - I Found by Amber Run
Forever scarred
I stay in the doorway of the living room without really going in.
He gave me pajamas after my shower. He soaped me up, touched the lines I'd drawn on myself without saying a word.
Brushed my hair with delicate fingers and kissed me again until my dark thoughts disappeared in between his lips.
Then he let me get ready and disappeared into the kitchen to cook something.
That’s where I found him. The place is bathed in a soft and warm light.
He's there, standing in front of the microwave.
Bare chest, marked with traces I left behind when I lost control under his hands.
Tattoos of flames curled softly around his waist climbing higher before disappearing into shadow. Scars, healed wounds and muscles.
His hair is still damp, a stubborn dark strand falling carelessly on his forehead. Water is still clinging to his large shoulders and I realize he also has black feathers inked there.
The beep sounds as he opens the door, and I see hot dogs. I almost laugh, because I know these were supposed to be for him whenever he stayed in this house.
He doesn’t cook much, even when we eat together. He always finds something somewhere to make sure I’m not hungry but is incapable of doing it himself.
Maybe no one cooked for him to learn…
He doesn't turn around right away. He puts both of them down, and only then does he look up.
Our eyes meet and a faint smile lifts his mouth.
He reaches for his shirt as he pulls it over his head, before turning back to me.
Then, his hand comes to the front of my neck, pulling me closer, thumb resting lightly beneath my jaw.
He looks at me for a moment, then whispers almost to himself, “Mireya, you make it very difficult to be a decent man when you look at me like that.”
I blink, and his smile returns.
“You’re not sore, are you?” He asks.
I laugh and stare back at him. “I am actually.”
A slow satisfied look crosses his face. “Good.” He then leans down his fingers giving my neck one slow possessive squeeze as he presses a gentle kiss to my forehead.
“Come on,” he adds, grabbing the two hotdogs I completely forgot about. “Let's go out a bit.”
I didn't ask where, I just grabbed my jacket and followed him.
It's cold outside, but beautiful too. The ocean, the cliffs, the moon…everything feels soft.
Damien walks ahead of me without saying a word, carrying both hotdogs in his hands, and I follow him without needing to think about where we’re going.
The edge of the cliff comes into view, and he settles at the drop-off, tapping the space beside him, silently asking me to join him. And I do.
I pull my legs up to my chest and take a bite while he leans back on his arms, leaving his own next to him.
He doesn’t even taste it, he just stays there, silent for a moment.
Only the sound of the wind, the ocean, and that strange feeling of being invisible in something far too vast to explain.
“Why are you doing this?” His voice breaks the silence.
I turn my head toward him, putting down my hot dog, then return to the stars. “Doing what?” I know perfectly well, but I'm stalling.
He doesn't answer right away. Instead his eyes meet mine, and somehow his gaze is worse than the question. “All of that,” he says simply.
I could lie, or avoid the question, make up something easier to say. But something about the way he looks at me makes me want to be honest.
“The brain is very strange, don't you think?” He tilts his head to the side, inviting me to continue.
And I focus on the waves and keep talking.
“When the abuse started, I started looking for things that would make me feel something else.
It became this weird and unhealthy need to do more, to experience more.
Anything to fill that void, like my brain was begging me to find someone, a physical distraction that would prove I wasn't broken because someone forced me to do things I didn't want to do.”
I take a long breath, remembering what pulled me into this hole in the first place. That endless cycle of hurting myself to experience the abuse again and change the outcome of it.
“I used to go out with Hayzel a lot. Strange parties now that I think about it, and I always ended up making out with someone. It didn't bring me anything; I thought it was helping me, but actually, I regretted it every time I found myself alone afterward.”
I hate talking about this…
“I always had this ritual. Since it started with him. But it became worse after that. After each time, I took a hot shower and hurt myself. Hence the scars,” I finally turn to him and see that his gaze is on me.
He doesn't say anything right away but searches for something in his pocket. He takes out his keys and asks, “Do you regret doing it with me? Is that why you did it tonight?”
I look at him and smile briefly. “No, it was good with you. It was perfect. I did it to remember it.”
I lifted up the pants he gave me, and traced the lines hiding on my thighs. “Seeing this and remembering that for the first time, my body isn't blaming itself.”
I look at the numbered scar on my thigh, so small it’s not noticeable if you don’t focus on them. “It helps sometimes. I wrote my name here, look,” I say showing him the small numbers that are forever scarred on my skin. 13 9 18 5 25 1
“Mireya…” He instantly reads it and understands. That's when he grabs my face before stroking my cheek carefully. The keys that were in his hand are slowly in mine as he puts it there. “There’s a Swiss knife there,” he says before taking off his shirt.
I’m confused…
“What are you doing?”
“Mark me.”
What?
I look at him, brows furrowed, but he meets my gaze with certainty.
“I said, mark me. Use that knife and write anything here,” he says, pointing at his heart on his chest. “I want you to leave this on me, so that every time you see it, you’ll know that I’m here with you. Not the voices, not the regrets. Me. I’m with you. Always.”
No words came out of my mouth for a few seconds. Our eyes collide, his are soft, demanding, mine are worried and lost, but then I finally say, “I don’t want to hurt you.”
And he smiles, sure of his decision. “You won’t,” he says. “Mark me.”
My chest tightens. This isn’t normal, none of this is. There’s a thought in my head, loud and scared, asking the right question for once. Is this okay?
Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? If it’s wrong… why does it feel like this?
“Mireya.” His voice cuts through everything. “I’m with you,” he says again, softer.
I’m with you…
His hand closes around mine, as he turns my palm over, opening the small knife from his keychains and guides it to his chest. Right over his heartbeat. “Here.” The word barely leaves his mouth, my fingers press the blade against him, and for a second I forget how to breathe.
I’m with you.
I don’t think before I write it, pushing the blade into his skin, making sure it’s not too deep, but not too light either.
This is insane…
My hand just moves, the knife follows the sound of the quote in my head. He’s bleeding but he’s still smiling as he follows the movement of the blade on his skin.
Marking him.
9 1 23 21. On his chest, right over his heartbeat. Scars that would remain, and only us would understand it. For the first time it doesn’t follow a perfect logic. But it makes sense.
Blood is falling down his chest, it’s in my fingers, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t seem hurt at all. He looks down right away, tracing the path of my fingers cleaning up the mess I made. “What does that mean?” he asks.
“‘I’m with you,’” I reply, but he keeps looking at it like he’s trying to understand it.I haven't moved my hand yet, I keep tracking the numbers, one by one. “It’s just how I shorten it,” I say. “In my head.”
He glances up, smiling, proud almost to have this on him forever. “How?”
“I don’t keep the full sentence when you say it,” I add. “It breaks into parts when I repeat it too much.” I tap lightly on his chest. “It becomes smaller so it’s easier to hold.”
I point to the first number. “9 is I.” Then the next.
“1 is am.” I pause, trying to explain it properly.
“23 is W. And 21 is U.” Then I hesitate, because I start overthinking how to explain it.
“Sometimes if the sound is too long, I just compress the letters again because it’s—” I stop mid-sentence. It’s getting too complicated.
He laughs softly, before grabbing my face and pulling me closer, “I get it, Mireya. I like it that way,” he says.
I look at him, lost in the affection and warmth I find in his eyes. “What way?”
He nods at my hand on his chest. “The messy version. The way your head actually does it. Not the perfect explanation.”
“It’s only going to make sense for us,” I whisper, and I stop trying to fix it.
He leans in and kisses me, slowly like it doesn’t need to make more sense than that, and when he pulls back he repeats softly, “912321.” A pause. “I’m with you.”
I try to pull my hand back because I don’t want to put more pressure on his wound, but he stops me gently. “Leave it,” he says. “And kiss me again.”
So I do. And when I stop thinking about it, I realize I’m not even trying to translate it anymore. I’m just here. With him.