15. Ambrose—present day
Ambrose—present day
T oday’s shift was decent—quiet, but decent. The early finish was appreciated until I began my journey home.
The cold air was the first thing to attack me, blowing through my open shirt. There was no fake blood on me tonight—that’s not part of this Saturday’s attire, and before I left, Valaria talked to me again about a change that wouldn’t trigger anyone’s PTSD. By anyone’s, she meant mine.
No more fucking clowns.
Well, no more clown makeup. The town is full of clowns.
Tonight is proof.
Real blood drips from new wounds that will one day stain my flesh silver and join the many others.
I could have—should have—driven and avoided all this.
There’s a beat-up old car parked in that eerily dark cave under my house. No doubt, the antique mechanisms are seizing with each step I take.
Perhaps nerves play a part, as I only got my license two weeks ago. But I’ll be wiser next time. Shaking behind a steering wheel isn’t half as bad as getting hit in the face with a bike chain while another is wrapped around my throat, pressing into scar tissue.
I swallow, and it hurts.
My breaths come out heavy, creating a fog around me as I hobble on.
All the hate spat at me still lingers in my head.
“Worthless, ugly fuck! No one wants you here!”
“Murdering scum.”
“No wonder you had to force yourself on your little sister!”
“Why don’t you just fucking end it all.”
Three voices linger in my head, maybe by choice or chance, who knows. Another two boys were present. One of those fucker’s spat on me, and I’m sure I can still smell his breath on my face.
I’d only landed one punch, and that sounds kinda pathetic, I think to myself, before reminding myself that it was five against one. Of course, that isn’t why I only hit once. Fighting back is harder to do when you hate touching people.
And now, because of that, five masked hooligans who don’t want me in this town and will likely strike again at some point probably think I’m fucking weak.
Five hooligans who wouldn’t have stopped, if not for a random police car cruising into a drive-through diner just down the road.
These thugs didn’t want to get into trouble. They just wanted to give me trouble.
And that one punch I landed would be enough to put me back behind bars.
Especially because when the guy’s mask broke away from his face in two pieces, it showed a youthful, privileged face—the face of a teenager who’d likely never known stress in his life.
Until now, when one piece of the cheap plastic clown mask had to be pulled from his cheek by one of his friends.
I forget those boys and how to breathe as I pass by the remains of a playground on the right.
The playground.
Subconsciously, I can’t help but look in and picture a boy with a limp trying to outdo his little sister on the swing set.
“I’m winning.”
“Yeah, well, I helped you cheat.”
Dollie’s laugh fills my head. She was such a free-spirited child. Careless, I thought back then. She, unlike me, never saw the danger around her. I saw it everywhere.
In the sinister promise behind a pink balloon that resembled a dog.
“Don’t take that.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
I make my way into the trees, sticking close to the edge to avoid the anxiety I can feel lurking beyond each shadow, just waiting to attack.
A cold sweat sticks to me as I walk a path that, until tonight, I haven’t walked since I was eight.
Slipping out from the trees, the black monument sits ahead in the distance, blending in with the dark sky and telling me home isn’t too far away.
I can make it there before my weak leg gives out.
One of those little bastards who jumped me took a lucky shot there.
Despite my knee screaming out for a rest, I continue until I see a fork in the road. One route leads to the cave below my home, the other to a hill that will take me to the backyard.
Choosing to avoid the cave and my car, parked there mocking me, I begin my climb.
All I have to do is avoid the overgrown weeds, broken gnomes, and knocked-over gray stones that resemble gravestones, and I’ll be fine.
Pulling myself up, I climb the fence and land on my good leg.
Blood drips from my hair into my eyes and across my nose. A blur crosses my vision as I tread on dead flowers on the way to the back door.
The kitchen light highlights Dollie in a pink dress and her boyfriend behind her with his slimy dick in his hand.
I stop dead, crushing an ancient gnome and his big button nose beneath my boot.
Him leering behind her, trying to line up, is an image I want burned from my fucking brain. But unfortunately, I know that’s a dream that is never going to fucking come true.
And neither are his fucking fantasies.
He edges in, looking like he has less of a fucking clue what he’s doing than I do, and my only sexual experiences involve a clown ignoring all my pleas while I cried my fucking eyes out for him to stop touching me there .
Maybe it’s his position behind her, maybe it’s ignorance, or maybe he just doesn’t know her the way I do, but she’s not enjoying what he’s doing. I can see it in her eyes, in that faraway look, as I take a few steps closer to the window, preventing her from escaping to thoughts of darkness.
Her eyes land on my shirt and follow the trail of blood up to my tilted face.
A stabbing pain twinges in my heart as I get a front-row seat to the worst thing I’ve seen in my adult life.
His slimy cock is somewhere inside her now. I can tell by the expression on his ugly face. His closed eyes and open mouth make my eyes widen, and my lips press into a thin line, taking more of this image.
A trance takes hold, molding Dollie to me, her eyes fixed on my image and mine on the man behind her.
It all stops with a loud bang and her falling back. A scream leaves her, and hysterics begin before I realize I caused this.
My bloody handprint stains the glass. A crack sits below. Through it, I watch for a moment until Dollie crawls under the table with tears on her face. It’s enough for me to decide on the front door.
Around twenty minutes later, I’m still shaking as I step out of the shower.
The bright light above hurts my eyes as I grab for a towel, but it makes it easy to catch my reflection in the mirrored cabinet above the sink.
My stomach rolls over my disgusting image.
Moving wet strands of hair from my forehead reveals a huge purple bruise.
A prominent gash sits in the center, still dripping blood.
It probably needs checking, but I can’t risk getting questioned by the police. Nurses would likely report my injuries, and the gash isn’t half the issue that the burn around my throat is. Good thing, I’m not due to see my shrink or probation officer for close to a week.
I finger the sensitive area, wincing with the pain.
Another glance at my face has emotions rising inside me. The bathroom becomes a blur as my eyes water. And I wonder what I’d look like without all Colin’s abuse permanently plastered on my face.
I’ll never fucking know.
I’ll never know what it’s like not to have a permanent smile cut into my skin. The choker to match, thick and pinkish silver against my skin. I’ll never know how it feels to look in the mirror and not be repulsed by the hundreds of scars and the cunt who put them there.
It’s too much, all these emotions.
My body shakes, and I almost feel like I don’t have control of my hand as it rises, closes into a fist, and slams into the mirror repeatedly until shards clang in the sink.
Without worrying who will see the results, I pick up a pointed one, take it to my flesh, and trace the lines on my face. Blood drips to the sink as my skin parts, staining the perfect white. I don’t stop, panting through the pain until each scar is made new… but I still see the same version of me.
The broken soul in stained skin.
His creation.
And I hate myself for it.
My fingers draw a thicker smile on my face, using my blood.
Staring at my broken reflection, I spot the patch of oil on my forehead, hiding amongst longer strands of hair. It’s from the bike chain, and I’d somehow missed it in all the extreme washing.
Unbelievable.
With the black smudge on my fingers, I take it to my eyes and paint a diamond around each one.
I look like a clown now, too.
Does it make you feel better about them?
The question is for myself, but my only answer is the tears in my eyes finally falling. I drop the shard to join them and close my eyes.
Fifteen years back, on my thirteenth birthday, after letting Dollie know it had to be my last because I couldn’t do this anymore, we lay in her window dome—a space occupied by so many pillows and a dozen teddy bears who she felt bad for because none lived up to Duggan.
He’s there, too, tightly clutched in her arm.
Her other hand is on me, tracing the scars that make me ugly.
“You can’t leave me. You were silly to think I’d let you go anywhere without me. You’re my best friend. Should I cast a self-love spell on you?”
I turn to her from my position on my back, and she shares Duggan between us. He does little for me outside the fact that he belongs to her, and I never feel alone when she’s nearby.
“Maybe you do. I can’t live like this. I can’t look at myself,” my lips move silently.
“They’re just scars.”
“They’re his marks,” I mouth. “All I see is him.”
She understands why I stiffen with hatred.
“No, nothing of you belongs to him. You belong to me. My friend, my brother, my person… my hero. Scarred to keep me safe. Scarred to survive, and I’m glad you did. And you will because I’m not done needing you yet. I love you.” She kisses the tip of my nose.
And I almost feel it in the here and now. Red fingers smear the blood on my face as I touch the spot.
Staring into the broken mirror, I look even fucking worse now. Rubbing my hands over my face, all my features turn red.