19. G-R-E-E-N
G-R-E-E-N
“Spelling bee you say?” Scar sat cross-legged, looking at me sideways as the light reflected off his chain.
He was missing when I woke up last night, and his shirt was covered in specks of red when he returned.
I didn’t ask him about it though, Reyna said it was rude to ask people about their appearances. I missed her.
“Yes, Miss Stefanie says the whole class would be able to get a pizza party if we did well,” a smile crossed my face, and then it fell. “Do you think I’ll be able to see them again Scar?”
He looked funny before shaking his head. “I think you will see them again one day, trouble,” he tried to smile, but it looked like he was pushing his teeth out in a strange way. A giggle bubbled up my throat, and he resumed his grumpy look.
“My name’s Gabriella.” I said, my face still bruised from the awful man’s slap. And a pout settled on my face.
“Didn’t ask.”
“Okay…” I looked down at the layer of black dirt; if I moved it a certain way, I could create letters in it. I started spelling out the colors I knew.
B-l-u-e
R-e-d
P-i-n-k
I started writing one of my favorite colors next
P-u — I stopped and looked up.
“How do you spell purple?”
“P-u-r-p-l-e, think of a cat purring, it’ll help you remember. Why do you call me Scar?” He had his hand on his chin as if he were in thought.
“You remind me of the lion from the movie, and your eyes are the same. Green. I never met anyone with green eyes before, Uncle Cole has gray eyes, Reyna has brown eyes, and Mommy has eyes like mine. You must be special.”
“That’s uh— thanks. You shouldn’t tell the truth so easily trouble.”
“Why not? That’s what Reyna and Miss Stefanie said was best.” I crossed my arms over my chest, staring at him.
“You’ll be better off not telling them. The bad people. Lie to them, don’t ever give them the chance to take advantage of you.”
“Is that what they did to you last night?” I didn’t mean to ask, but curiosity crept in to fill the gaps between what I saw and what I understood.
“They were not kind to me. You going to tell me what happened to your face trouble?” He sat back against his wall; the chains rattled as he settled.
“The bad man smacked me,” I spoke low, not ready to face the consequences of my own actions.
“Why did he do that?”
“I—I bit him.” Sadness crept into my words as I remembered the pain rushing through my face.
“Well guess he deserved it,” Scar’s voice sounded proud, and I glanced up at him then.
“I don’t like him,” I said.
“Me either,” he agreed.
He stretched his arms and yawned big, and a giggle slipped out of me. He looked like a lion when he did that. I liked Scar; he’d been so nice since the bad man kept him here. Scar stuck his tongue out and his eyes crossed, making me laugh louder, and I could almost forget we were stuck here.
Pain in my tummy had me clutching out, and the giggles disappeared with it. I doubled over, grabbing my stomach. A gurgling sound escaped me. “It hurts,” I cried out.
Scar was standing at the bars, no longer smiling, but a cold scariness crossed his face.
“Hey asshole!” He yelled, and it was so loud that I pinched my eyes shut and covered my ears.
A vibration filtered through my body as I looked up to see his fist slamming into the bars, mouth still agape in a yell.
For a moment I thought the sound was muted because my hands covered my ears, but the fog stayed.
It was as if the world moved at the slow pace of a snail.
Like I blinked too slowly, and the world didn’t catch up.
My body grew heavy and my eyes closed. Don’t go, little butterfly. I won’t, Reyna, I’m here.
I woke up shaking and cold; it was so cold here. It was always cold, but this time it felt like someone shoved me into the freezer and made me a popsicle. Tears fell from my eyes as I huddled into myself.
“You awake over there?” Scar’s voice sounded scratchy and raw, like that cat’s sounded when the neighbor locked it outside all night.
“I—yes.” I whispered as I shivered against the floor.
“Come closer to the bars,”Scar spoke.
I started moving my arms only for them to scream in pain. A pained sound tumbled from my lips as I slowly crawled towards the bars, “What is it?”
He came close, so close I could see the ugly puffiness of his scarred eye and the thin, cracked lines of his lips. His face was smeared with dirt and red. Blood. I looked down at his large, scarred hand, and in it was a small piece of bread.
“Here, I saved this for you. They didn’t give me much.”
“T-t-thank y-y-you.” I chattered, and his arm reached through the bar; the chain jerked it backwards. A growl rumbled up his throat. He reached forward to put his hand to my head, the chain biting at his wrist the further he stretched. His hand felt cold against my forehead, too cold.
“You’re running a fever, trouble.” He spoke barely above a whisper.
“I— cold.” It was getting harder to think.
I brought the bread to my lips, munching on the slightly stale loaf.
It satisfied the grumbling in my stomach, but the chill continued.
Tears rained down from my face; I wanted this feeling to go away.
I heard the sharp tearing of fabric, and then the next thing I knew, Scar placed his shirt onto my back.
“Turn around with your back to the bars.” He said as he leaned against the back of the bars. His large back was littered with scars, and there on his shoulder was a bandage with red in the center. I sat against the bars, and the moment his skin touched my back, I instantly felt better.
Scar gave me his food, his clothes, and now his warmth. I leaned my head back against his other shoulder as I brought more of the bread to my mouth.
“T-t-thank y-y-you s-s-Scar.” I mumbled.
“Don’t thank me yet trouble, we still have to survive the night.” He murmured a soft rumble that added to his warmth.
“C-c-can y-y-you t-t-tell m-me a st-story?” I chattered as I ate the last bite of bread.
“Yeah, I can tell you a story.” He sighed before starting, “Once upon a time there was a boy about your age, with brown hair and the brightest green eyes. He was the biggest strongest little boy of his age, he loved motorcycles and race cars and everything that zoomed around. He would spend hours in the backyard building racetracks in the mud.” Scar paused.
“H-he s-sounds nice, what’s h-his n-n-name?” I asked.
“Oliver, his name was Oliver.”
“Ol-liver. O-l-i-v-e-r r-r-right?” I chattered again. A yawn crept in, and my eyes felt heavy, but I wanted to listen to the story.
“Exactly, Oliver had a mom, a dad and a baby sister that was tiny. He loved them all very much especially his little sister, even though she couldn’t talk or do much of anything he showed her all of his toys, including his favorite black motorcycle...”