Scars
Istood at the kitchen window, my eyes fixed on the ancient tree, and a relentless, fiery ache clawed its way up my throat.
An overwhelming sense of dread washed over me, as if my mind had shattered into a thousand fragile pieces—something broken beyond repair.
I remained rooted there, helpless and consumed by that haunting watchfulness.
The sun drifted lazily across the sky, hands of rain clouds creeping closer, casting a somber shadow over everything. A wild thought suddenly seized me, fierce and undeniable—something about the rain felt hauntingly familiar, almost cursed. Forbidden.
A desperate craving surged within me, a need so fierce it felt like a physical ache—something I couldn’t ignore.
I turned, frantic, searching for my pack of smokes, questioning if it was merely the weight of stress or something darker.
My fingers finally found it resting quietly by her coffee cup, alongside her black lighter—Lilly’s lighter—staring back at me like a silent sentinel.
The door swung open without a sound as I moved sluggishly toward the tree, clutching the pack of cigarettes in my hands.
Click.
The lid peeled back with a whisper, my fingers striking the flint in an instinctive rush.
Tobacco touched my lips, and I drew in a shuddering breath, igniting the cigarette, as if trying to ignite some spark within me.
“Charlie?” A faint sound escaped her—her voice barely more than a whisper, fragile and broken. The tree itself seemed to possess her, an eerie embodiment of her distress.
I continued forward with heavy, slow steps, exhaling smoke into the air, my fingers gently brushing against the weeping willow’s branches, as if seeking comfort or perhaps connection.
“It’s going to rain soon,” I mumbled, my voice distant, as if unable to hold onto clarity.
My mind unraveled and chaos spilled out, scattering jagged shards of thought.
I drew another long puff, watching the smoke curl into the sky before I looked down at the cigarette, its small ember burning brighter than the sun, fierce and unforgiving.
I stepped into the heart of the willow, feeling the weight of something unspoken pressing against my chest.
Lilly’s piercing blue eyes locked onto mine, and I blinked in disbelief, caught somewhere between reality and something darker.
Anna stood in Lilly’s place, her body shivering from the cold, her bare legs exposed, hauntingly marked by scars that had seared themselves into my memory.
I swear there were eight—layers of torment etched into her skin, burning scars I couldn’t comprehend. My stomach twisted into knots. Anna never had those…did she?
With a trembling hand, I reached out and swept her shirt upward, my gaze fixated on her bare thigh—a canvas of pain I had somehow missed until now.
Why hadn’t I seen them? Why?